


Yours Is No Disgrace

by Llwyden ferch Gyfrinach (Llwyden)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, Case Fic, Killing, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llwyden/pseuds/Llwyden%20ferch%20Gyfrinach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is killing reapers - government-licensed executioners - and it looks to be one of their own. Is the Chesapeake Reaper responsible for the deaths, or is somebody trying to make it look like his work?</p><p>AU of Aperitif, based on <a href="http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2246.html?thread=3202246">this prompt</a> from the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many, many thanks to the amazing AmandaJean for her beta, without whom this thing would have a lot more commas and dialogue tags and would be ickier.
> 
> Any remaining errors are mine. (Except for Hobbs' name, damn it, which is canonically Garrett everywhere else and Garret in the show. Why, Bryan Fuller??)
> 
> Art for the big bang [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1240396), by the lovely takumilaurant!

_While the tradition of state-sponsored execution has existed for as long as states have, in no other time or state has there been such an intricate and yet egalitarian system as that which exists in America now. Even the European Union, in adopting their current system, has made resort to the long-standing traditions of familial executioner castes, and any from outside that system who wish to take up the profession face long and convoluted application processes. Whether the peculiarly American idea of execution as a business is a positive or a negative thing has been debated for many years._

— Sadkovitz, J. (2001). _The business of death_ , pp. 3-4.

 

 

“Mister Graham!” Jack Crawford caught him at the end of a class, smiling and up in Will’s space in a way that was probably supposed to be friendly but that set Will’s teeth on edge.

_Or on second thought, maybe that’s what he means to do,_ Will thought as Agent Crawford ushered him out of the auditorium, still talking. _See how hard he can push the freak before he snaps._

“Can I borrow your imagination?”

 

Jack — two could play at the overly familiar game — wouldn’t say much till they were back in his office. “Seven murders in the last eight months, all with the same signature. All female, all reapers or reaper support staff.”

“I haven’t heard anything about that.” Will frowned.

“We’ve managed to keep most it out of the news until now.” Jack indicated the pegboard on the far side of his office. “I’m sure you can understand the need.”

Will scanned the board as he stepped closer, and his gut twisted. “These aren’t murder scenes, they’re installations. You think this is the work of the Chesapeake Reaper.”

“Don’t you?”

Will could feel Jack’s gaze on him, and he shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

“Well, that’s exactly what I want you to do. Think about it. Get closer; see what you can tell me.”

“Oh, no.” Will held up a hand, started for the door. “You’ve got Heimlich at Harvard, Bloom at Georgetown; they do the same thing I do. Or here’s a thought — why don’t you just _ask_ the guy? Interrogate him if you have to?”

“Because we can’t.” It was a new voice, and Will took a step back to face the newcomer without losing sight of Jack. “Mike Zawalski,” he introduced himself, and thankfully didn’t hold out a hand.

“Mike’s the Bureau’s head of Reaper Coordination,” Jack explained.

Will shook his head, confused. “What do you mean you can’t ask him?”

Zawalski closed the door behind him, giving them a pained look. “Because we don’t know who he is.”

Will blinked at him, taking in everything he could — he wasn’t lying. He shook his head again, this time in disbelief. “I’m sorry, this is the guy that’s so well-known, so feared among the walking dead that he’s the only one they call _The_ Reaper, and you’re telling me he’s not official?”

“Oh, he’s official. Jack?” Zawalski asked, uncomfortable tension radiating off of him.

Jack nodded toward the chairs by his desk. Zawalski sat and, after hesitating, so did Will; he might as well have all the information before he made up his mind.

Shifting to sit at the edge of his seat, Zawalski set a folder on the desk and flipped it open. “He started in the Chesapeake Bay area, of course, hence the name, but the Chesapeake Reaper’s got confirmed targets across the country, plus a few in Europe we suspect but can’t verify. We’ve never had reason to question him; there’s never been a whiff of official impropriety, despite his…theatricality.”

Will snorted. “You mean the fact that he turns his targets into art and walks off with parts is good for building the mythology and keeping people in line.”

There was an edge of discomfort in Zawalski’s shrug. “Would you want to go out like that? The point is, we never had a problem. Then the local cops called us in on this. The first thing we did was lift the Reaper’s paperwork to have a talk with him.” He pulled a photocopy from the folder and slid it to Will.

He picked it up and looked it over. It was a Reaper’s license, filled out and stamped properly, dated March 1997; the DNA profile, fingerprint card, and photo were attached to it, but the fingerprints were so faded and incomplete that they were illegible and the photo was almost entirely black. “It looks fine, except for the fingerprints and picture. I’m guessing it’s not?”

“The address is a fly-by-night hotel; they’d be lucky to remember who roomed there last week, let alone fifteen years ago. And do you have any idea how many John Smiths there are out there?”

“A lot,” Will answered wryly. “What about asking the…” he checked the license, “…Missouri FBI?”

“We did. Unfortunately, the local office he obtained the license from is perpetually understaffed. The clerk who signed it was already past retirement age, just needed a job. She passed away less than a year later. Heart attack in her sleep, before you ask. The current clerk couldn’t shed any light on who the guy might be or what happened with the fingerprints and photo.”

“He planned it that way.” Will stared at the paper. “No reason for him to be there; he just went looking for a place he could be anonymous. Probably researched, planned, then waited to make his first kill until after the clerk was dead.” He saw Zawalski wince at the word “kill”, but didn’t back down. _Call it what it is._ “Whoever he is, he never wanted to be found. Put something on his fingers to break down the ink; did the same with the photograph. Whoever he is, he knows chemistry. He probably would’ve taken off the DNA, too, if it wasn’t needed for confirmation.”

“So you see my problem,” Zawalski said. “You find who’s behind these, I can tell you if he’s the Chesapeake Reaper. Until then, we’ve got nothing.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Will corrected, giving in. “You’ve got a ton of files on him. If you want to me to figure out if this is him and why,” he told Jack, glaring in his direction, “I’ll need access to whatever you have.”

“Done.” Zawalski sounded relieved. “I’ll have your permissions updated ASAP and e-mail you with the details.” He hesitated. “Look, Mister Graham.” The door opened, and he stopped. Jack got up to meet the person at the door, and Mike lowered his voice. “We need to know the truth; I get that. I joined the Bureau for a reason. But if the Chesapeake Reaper is responsible for this, I don’t think I have to tell you the chaos and problems it would cause. I know Agent Crawford thinks it is him, but if there’s any doubt in your mind, any at all, _please_ pursue it.”

Zawalski straightened as Jack came back. “And if it is him,” he said ruefully, “find him as fast as possible.”

“Faster than that,” Jack cut in, looking grim. He tossed a picture on top of the folder on the desk. “Elise Nichols, nineteen. She was a college student taking courses in business and communications, temping as a secretary for a local group specializing in bodyguarding, reaping on the side. She was found by a friend, who called the press right after the police.” He glowered.

Zawalski looked like he was fighting down the obscenities he’d no doubt prefer to spew. He stood. “I’d better get on damage control. Mister Graham, good to meet you. I’ll get you that access. Jack.”

“I’ll keep you up to date,” Jack promised. He turned to Will. “We’re heading out to Minnesota. I have to grab a forensics team, so you’ve got two hours to meet me at BWI; I hope you’ve got a go-bag.”

Will glared at Jack’s midsection even as he stood, annoyed at the casual orders. Still. “I’ll be there.”


	2. Chapter 2

_During the Revolutionary War, the colonists determined early on that to fight the British on their own terms could only end in defeat. We can trace many of the roots of modern guerrilla warfare and organized reaping to their need to find a way to fight back effectively. This is not only due to the physical impossibility of facing well-trained British troops in the open in a “gentlemen’s fight”, but to the need to undermine the British public’s desire to continue the war._

_The ability of the hired cadre of reapers to assassinate select targets without larger loss of life was essential to this […]. The attempt on the part of the royal court to portray the reapers as cannibalistic did little to affect it, as American writers such as Thomas Paine were quick to point out that the tradition of taking trophies to verify completion of the goal far predated the colonies._

_[…] the only place these ideas did take root was in the minds of the less literate portions of the British and colonial public — those in rural areas, slaves and indentured servants, and the lower classes. Ironically, this did more to assist with postwar order than wartime hostility, and was later encouraged by the fledgling states themselves for precisely that reason._

_—_ Wolhaim, S. (1987). _The origins of modern reaper legends,_ p. 37.

 

 

He called Alana as he packed, only telling her he was going out of town and asking if she could feed the dogs. She sounded exasperated and a little worried, but he reassured her as best he could, though painfully aware it probably wouldn’t help. A little under two hours later, he was standing by the security check-in waiting for Jack.

The flight itself was unremarkable, if cramped. He glanced at the family across the aisle, sighed, and tucked all the pictures out of sight as he looked over the information they had on the murders so far. All women, six Caucasian and two Hispanic. Elise Nichols was the youngest, and the oldest was twenty-six. Five reapers, one business partner, one secretary, and Elise; no significance in the timing by age or occupation.

“Anything?” Jack asked quietly.

Will shook his head. “There’s a pattern; similarities. The Reaper’s always been known for the complete _lack_ of discernible pattern in his targets. And he doesn’t usually kill in the same area repeatedly except for around DC. But if something’s triggered him to snap, the sudden consistency could just be indicative of that. The theatrical display, the organ removal — those are consistent with his MO on paper. I’ll need to see more to tell for sure.”

 

The press was waiting outside the crime scene, loud and strident, and Will welcomed the relative quiet of the office building. Elise’s boss, a bruiser with the clichéd moniker “Tiny”, greeted them openly, if a bit aggressively.

“She was a good girl, she didn’t deserve this. But I don’t deserve those god-damned vultures outside ruining my business! You find who did this and find ‘em fast, so I can take ‘em down.”

“That _is_ our job,” Jack answered curtly. He waved Will ahead of him. “Take your time. Let me know when you’re ready.”

The stag’s head on one wall was a trophy of one of Tiny’s partners’ past hunts. It had been tagged for processing now. Elise Nichols’ killer had choked her and left her impaled on it, arms stretched out and draped over the antlers like a crucifixion. She’d been split from navel to sternum and the skin stretched back, blood pooling in the cavity and spilling out below her. Will closed his eyes and pictured it, then reversed the scene in his mind.

 

_The reapers are back from a job, the other secretary has gone to the airport to pick them up. Elise is alone, but she knows what she’s doing, she can handle it. Finishes the paperwork, files it at 10:15. Nothing left for now, so she pulls out her Economics book, logs into the university web site._

_I can see her through the window, can hide behind the bushes, but once I start forward, there’ll be no place to hide; she can see out, too. I walk up casually — another guy looking for work, maybe, or needing to hire some muscle. Not a businessman — a suit’s too hard to move in for what I have to do._

_I smile as I enter, make myself look harmless. Pull out something to hand her so she’ll have to get closer. Then I can reach her neck._

“He brings what he needs with him.” He flicked his eyes toward Jack. “But he’s not afraid to improvise.” He indicated the antlers. “He’s not well-dressed, but not scruffy, either; nothing to draw attention. He’s a hunter; he knows how to stalk. If not human targets, then animals. This isn’t new to him. And I doubt the positioning was accidental; he saw something pure in her, if not holy, despite the compulsion to kill her.”

Jack looked expectant, but Will shrugged; he couldn’t give more than that.

Jack sighed. “Let’s see what forensics has got for us.”

The team — Zeller, Katz, and Price — ribbed each other and tossed insults back and forth, but clearly knew what they were doing.

“No useful latents this time, either,” Price apologized. “Not from her neck or around her wounds. I’m still processing, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Antler velvet in the wounds,” Katz added. “No trace of any other foreign material so far. I’m still working on her clothes, though.”

“And the pièce de résistance,” Zeller announced with a flourish, “the wound. Post-mortem; she was killed by strangulation, same as the others, then hung up immediately after — blood’s all pooled the same direction. What’s left, anyway.”

“What part was she missing?” Jack asked.

“Pancreas.” Zeller pointed it out. “Sliced free, not torn, again same as the others. Although,” he raised a finger, “oddly enough, either that wasn’t his first choice, or he had a problem getting to it. Her liver’s been cut out, too, and removed. And then he put it back. Pretty carefully, if you ask me.”

Price looked at him. “Why take it out if he’s only going to put it back in?”

Like a flash, Will could see it.

_I slice her open, wait for the first rush of blood to run free, then reach in and cut it out. It isn’t until I have it in hand that I can see…_ “There’s something wrong with the meat.”

They all turned to him. Then Zeller glanced back at the screen with her medical notes. “She had liver cancer,” he admitted slowly.

Will smiled, though it probably came out as more of a grimace. “How up are you on your reaper legends, Jack?”

Jack looked nauseated; they all did. “That’s a fallacy,” Zeller scoffed, shaking off the moment. “There’s no evidence that reapers ever actually practiced cannibalism; even they’re not that desperate.”

“It’s a legend with a long history, though,” Katz countered gleefully. “And there was Charlotte Keane.”

“She shoved her targets’ genitals into their own mouths,” Price corrected. “I don’t think it counts. Besides, who hasn’t wanted to do that to some dick one time or another?”

Jack ignored them. “He’s eating them?” he asked Will. “Are you sure?”

Will shrugged. “He’s eating them, or he wants us to think he is. He’s not in this for the recognition; he won’t display them as trophies. And he’s not just taking them for form’s sake, or he wouldn’t care about the cancer.”

Jack nodded, then looked to the others. “Pack it up, get everything back to the labs. Let’s see what we can find.”

They bustled faster around the room, and Will watched, a little bemused. “Don’t you think that’s premature, Jack?” he asked quietly. “Won’t we find out more here?”

“The Chesapeake Reaper targeted a man in 2001, in Tucson,” Jack answered. “The only case on record where none of his target’s organs or other parts were missing.”  He looked straight at Will, but Will carefully kept his eyes averted. Jack looked him over a moment longer, then continued. “Edward Bastus had advanced lymphatic cancer which had spread throughout his system.” He glanced at his forensics team and clapped Will on the shoulder. Will stiffened but stayed still. “Looks like Zawalski’s out of luck.”

He stalked out, but Will stayed, his eyes wandering over the room as he looked at things that weren’t visible. The evidence seemed right, but still he couldn’t shake the feeling. He hadn’t had a chance yet to look closely at the Reaper’s kills, but as though the man were standing over his shoulder, something whispered in his ear, _This wasn’t me._


	3. Chapter 3

_The popular conception of reapers as psychopaths, or at the very least as heartless and somehow less than human, is not new. From the Burakumin in Japan to the Sanson family in France, executioners have often been ostracized by the very communities they serve. It is therefore not surprising that as of the 1990 census, 30 percent of those identifying their primary occupation as “reaper” also identify as at least one other group suffering from social exclusion. For those who feel abandoned by the system and yet wish to be a part of it, taking on a profession which simultaneously reinforces their exclusion and grants to it a certain cachet may be the only way in which they feel able to be noticed. Ethnic minorities and the poor, particularly, may see extreme social exclusion as a valid price to pay for a lucrative career._

_—_ Lecter, H. (2001). _Evolutionary origins of social exclusion_ , p. 102 _._

 

 

He headed home when they landed, eager to see the dogs, shower the stench of death off of him, and forget it all while he could; he had a feeling he might not be able to again for some time. But even so, he couldn’t avoid the pathetic-looking stray he ran across. A trip to the nearest grocery for some meat and a good forty minutes of gentle coaxing later, he was on his way home again. He smiled at the dog and ruffled his fur gently.

“Hey there. Don’t worry; everything’ll be fine.”

It was therapeutic, washing and rinsing and drying. The dog was well-behaved, and the feel of running his fingers through his fur, once the dirt started rinsing out, was soothing. The others watched from a bit of distance, a little wary but more curious than hostile. “You’ll need a name, of course,” he told him. “How about Winston?” The dog didn’t seem to object, and Will talked gently to him as he finished.

 

Jack Crawford called as Will was feeding everyone breakfast, making sure Winston got enough attention without shorting the others. After the worst sleep he’d had in ages, courtesy of nightmares of Elise Nichols, Will wasn’t exactly in a mood to be charitable.

“We need you here, need  you working on this,” Jack ordered gruffly.

“I’m working on it. I’ll be there,” Will snapped back. “I may not be telling you what you want.”

“What I want?” Jack growled. “What I want is the truth. I want to know what the hell is going on, what made the Chesapeake Reaper snap, and how we can stop him — preferably before he kills anyone else!”

“And what if it isn’t him, Jack?” Will nudged Martha away from Franklin’s food dish and back to her own. “What if it’s a copycat, or an admirer, or just someone with the same design sense?”

“Yeah, what are the chances of that?”

“I don’t know!” Will sighed and lowered his voice again. “I won’t know until I look at the Reaper’s files. All I’ve seen before is the same things as everyone. I need to see his design before I can know if it matches.”

“Fine. So _get here_ and work on it.” Jack’s voice was exasperated and stressed, and from the background noise and rhythm of his speech, it sounded like he was walking somewhere. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

Will was tempted to get ready as slowly as he could, just to thwart Jack Crawford. But the fact remained it would be best to stop whoever this was before anyone else died. And besides, he was curious; the Chesapeake Reaper had been an enigma to all but (it was assumed) law enforcement for years. Something in Will itched to figure him out, to learn everything he could about the man. He headed for the Reaper Coordination offices when he got to Quantico, and they set him up with a computer, sufficient security, and privacy so he could delve into the Chesapeake Reaper’s files.

His first confirmed kill had come two weeks after the Missouri clerk’s death, and Will was unsurprised to have that verified. He was surprised at the artistry and complexity, the corpse draped on a couch in a way that jogged his memory — a Renaissance painting, he thought, and made a mental note to look it up. The skin had been flayed delicately, and in places was missing entirely. Notes showed the liver, heart, and portions of the thighs had been missing.

_All edible parts. He was doing that from the start. And this is too complex, too calm to be his first._ He’d have to check with Zawalski about the timing on those European kills.

The other files were similar — all the bodies laid out more like artistic installations than murder scenes. Some of the displays seemed to make a statement about the victims’ crimes, but others had no immediate relation. No pattern of race, gender, economics, or age, but the strength needed for some of the work said the Reaper was probably fairly young. _When he started,_ Will amended. _Which means in his thirties or forties now. Maybe fifties if he keeps in good shape._

He compared the deaths in Minnesota. _Probably white. Again, strong — male and twenties to fifties. Either close to the girls’ ages, or identifies with someone who is._

There was a similarity, but nothing conclusive. And something in the documenting photographs from the Reaper’s kills nagged at him, something different than the Minnesota killer’s, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. After a while, he sighed, packed his notes up, and headed to Jack Crawford’s office.

There was another man there when he walked in, and Jack introduced him as they eyed each other curiously. “Will. This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter.”

“Doctor Lecter.” Will nodded at him. The doctor wore an expensively tailored dark blue suit and his posture was perfect; he practically screamed “refined” and “money”, and had the innate poise and confidence that came with being successful, good-looking, and rich. But his eyes were sharp, too, and there was an amused twist to his lips that said he hadn’t missed Will’s assessment. _Don’t underestimate this one._

“Mister Graham.” Doctor Lecter nodded back, and with reluctant amusement Will amended his evaluation to include “foreign” and upgraded him from “handsome” to “hot”. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. We were just discussing these dreadful murders.” He gestured at the pegboard with the pictures and map on it, his face a study in neutrality.

_He says “dreadful” for appearances’ sake,_ Will noted. _He’s seen worse, or he knows how to compartmentalize._ “You’re a medical doctor?”

He inclined his head. “Formerly. I left the field some years ago to become a psychiatrist.”

“Doctor Lecter’s done quite a bit of research on reapers,” Jack interjected.

“Which might help, if this is a reaper,” Will pointed out, still irritated at the jump to conclusion. “I’m still not convinced. There’s something different about these, but I can’t put my finger on it. All I’ve got is months’-old documentation and completion reports.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack answered, “if you want me to think this is someone else, you’re going to have to give me a little more to go on. What does he want? What’s this all about?” He was contained but curt, and Will could feel his irritation, his hackles rising in response.

“It is of course possible,” Doctor Lecter spoke up, “that he may have no reason you would recognize as such. But someone with a pattern like this most likely has something to base it on.”

“And the Reaper has no such pattern,” Will added. “The only thing his kills and these murders have in common is their theatricality. The Reaper’s been going after sanctioned targets for fifteen years — why stop now?”

“Because he’s a psychopath!” Jack scowled. “Who knows what could make him snap?”

“If I may,” Doctor Lecter began, his voice louder than it had been so far, “there is no evidence to suggest that he is anything of the kind.” He narrowed his eyes at Jack, and Will was tempted to take a step back. “Setting aside the problematic terminology, perhaps ten to fifteen percent of reapers are what you might call socio- or psychopathic. While that is quite a bit higher than in the population as a whole, it is still by no means a majority. And less than two percent have ever gone on to commit murders outside the system sanctioning them.”

“He’d have to have a hell of a trigger to snap now, Jack.” Will held up a hand. “I can’t say conclusively it isn’t him! Not yet. But I don’t think it’s likely.”

“For most true reapers,” Doctor Lecter said, back to urbane and calm, “their status as a reaper is the only social identification they have. To give that up would be to give up their identity. It would be like you giving up law enforcement, your marriage, everything. Not only the job and your wife, but the ability to see yourself as an agent or as a husband.”

Jack gave them both a dirty look. “Fine. You think this is someone else, get me some evidence. A profile. Anything! It doesn’t really matter yet anyway; we’ve got just as much to go on either way.” He sat down and waved them towards the door.

Doctor Lecter huffed in laughter quiet enough Jack wouldn’t hear and shared a look with Will before inclining his head toward the door. “I do believe we’ve been dismissed.”

Will smiled a little, the expression slightly forced, and preceded him out.

The walk to the parking lot was a long one, and it was too awkward for even Will to walk next to someone that long and not talk. “So, you’ve done research on reapers?”

Doctor Lecter inclined his head. “I’ve done quite a bit of research on social exclusion as a whole,” he corrected. “Some of that has understandably dealt with social stigmas attached to groups, as well as to individuals.”

He gave Will a sidelong glance. “I notice that while you exhibit less contempt for reapers as a group than our good Agent Crawford, you also refuse to use the conventional euphemisms that most people apply to their work. You recognize that what they do is killing, yet you do not stigmatize them for it. You have never killed anyone yourself, but your history suggests you are exceptionally good at placing yourself in the position of those who have. There is a part of you that is shocked by that, I imagine. You seek to distance yourself from the connection by using blunt terminology, but you are too familiar with the feelings behind it to condemn anyone else for theirs.”

Will narrowed his eyes at the doctor’s collarbone, stomach churning in anxiety and anger. “Whose profile are you working on, Doctor Lecter?”

“Hannibal, please.” He smiled at Will. “And I shall keep my observations to myself if you prefer, although I cannot turn them off any more than you can.”

 

It wasn’t until after he’d stalked off to teach, still fuming, that he realized Doctor Lecter had somehow slipped a business card into his coat pocket. _Annoying, perceptive, and good with his hands,_ he added to his profile, equal parts disgruntled and amused.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_In observing the details of any crime scene, it is as important to note what is not there as what is. Just as in a painting or photograph the negative space can be as important as the subject, in investigations the lack of a certain detail that would normally be expected can be the single clue that leads you to the killer’s design._

_—_ Graham, W. (2004). “Determining motive in criminal non-acquaintance homicide”, _Criminology, 42(2)_ , p. 143.

 

 

He never had a chance to do anything with Doctor Lecter’s card, though, because the next day Jack interrupted his afternoon class for another trip to Minnesota. _He’s escalating,_ Will thought uneasily. If their killer was ramping up this quickly, something else might’ve set him off again.

Jack sat grim and silent beside him on the plane, the forensics team scattered wherever they’d been able to find seats. He slept uneasily, interrupted by both the cramped confines and his own bad dreams. 

This time the body had been left in a field, far from the nearest city; the local police had time to brief them on the way out.

“We’re still working on identification,” the officer in charge informed them. “She seems older than the others, but she had no ID and doesn’t match any local missing persons reports. We’ve taken her prints and are running those and her face through the state databases; if that doesn’t work, we’ll look nationally.” She made a face. “The papers are calling him the ‘Minnesota Shrike’ now, seeing as he’s left the last two impaled.”

Price rambled on about shrikes and Will paid him half attention as he ran the other murders through his mind, getting a feel for them. When they made it to the crime scene, he circled slowly as the forensics team went to work. “What did he take?”

“Her lungs,” Zeller answered. “Pretty sure she was alive when he cut them out.”

Will stared at the body — no, the _installation_ — and rewound the scene. “This is different. This isn’t right.” He stepped closer, eyeing the way she was splayed out, naked and obscene, over the stag’s head. Through the killer’s eyes she was lovely, artistic in a way she’d never been in life. _In life she was a pig. Useless. In death at least she serves some purpose. I had to search for her and bring her here; nobody nearby would do._

Will’s head snapped up and his eyes focused. “This — this is the Chesapeake Reaper. She’ll be a legitimate target. Narrow your search; look for former reapers who’ve been convicted of capital crimes.”

“So it _is_ him!” Jack said.

Will shook his head, irritated. “Not _all_ of them. Only this one. He wants us to know — if he were going to do it, even anonymously, this is how he would. No care for who she used to be; there’s nothing pure in her. She’s art; she was never useful or…or beautiful in life, but she is now. Whoever the Shrike is, he’s _not_ the Reaper. And the Reaper wants us to know that.”

“And you’re sure it’s not just misdirection?” Jack asked a little skeptically.

“I’m sure.” Will ticked off points on his fingers. “The killer we’re looking for, he’s killing representations of someone. Someone he loves. He’s ambivalent; he kills them, but he keeps a part of them. He leaves them as much dignity as he feels he’s able. He wants them messy and dead, not humiliated. He wants to honor them; he feels some sort of love for them, even as he resents them, just like the one they represent.” His mind turned over almost faster than he could follow. “His daughter. She’s an only child. She wants to be a reaper, or study them, or work with them, and he can’t allow it. He wants to keep her home, show her the wrongness of it all, how it turns everything bad. Look for her, you’ll find your killer.”

The lead detective joined them. “We’ve confirmed her identity; Cassie Boyle, a former reaper out of Milwaukee. Convicted two months ago of DUI and vehicular homicide, had her license pulled and sentence given. She’s been lying low ever since. I guess we know where she is now.” She eyed the forensics team. “If you’re sure this is a legitimate reaper completion, I’m going to call my folks off. You want to stay?”

“We need to make sure first,” Jack insisted. “Let’s process as usual until and unless someone claims it.”

The detective went to break the news to her folks and Will stared at the body again. “There won’t be anything here. He’ll probably send in a sample for verification; the point was to leave no evidence at the scene.”

“Hm.” Jack still didn’t sound entirely convinced, but at least he wasn’t outright skeptical anymore. “Well, I suppose we’ll see. Meanwhile, we’ll start looking for folks who fit your profile.”

 

Jack elected to keep them in Minnesota this time. Just after dinner, word came from the Minneapolis FBI — a vial of Cassie Boyle’s blood had been delivered to their offices, confirmed by DNA and accompanied by the Chesapeake Reaper’s license number and DNA sample.

Will shrugged; Jack sighed. “Well, this should make Zawalski happy; I’ll let him know. And get onto the press about it before any more tabloids can jump on the story. Freddie Lounds has been having a field day with speculation.”

With nothing more to do at the moment, Will retired to the dingy hotel room the Bureau had paid for. It had heat at least, which was nice, but he missed his dogs. And somehow he thought the nightmares would find him anyway.

He wasn’t wrong.

 

A knock at the door woke him the next day, and he stumbled blearily to open it, shading his eyes to find himself faced with Hannibal Lecter, dark against the bright sun behind him.

“Good morning, Will. May I come in?”

Will blinked at him dumbly a moment longer. “When did you get here? Where’s Jack?”

“Yesterday evening. And Agent Crawford is at the FBI offices, ‘liaising’ with Agent Zawalski. May I come in?”

“Oh. Um.” Will stepped back and let him in, uncomfortably aware he was still in his boxers and undershirt, hair sticking every which way. He tried not to fidget too much faced with Lecter’s well-groomed…well, everything…and his canny eyes that seemed to undress Will even more than he was. “I’ll just be a sec. I have to…um.” He gestured in the vague direction of the bathroom before grabbing clothes and fleeing there. “Make yourself at home.”

The water was relaxing, and he forced himself to breathe deeply and calm his mind. By the time he was dressed and shaved, he at least had a bit more of a handle on himself. He ran a hand through his damp hair and headed back out.

Lecter was sitting at the room’s small table having pulled both chairs up to it, and he looked up at Will as he came over. “I am very careful about what I put into my body,” he explained, and the image that brought on had Will stifling a smirk, “which means I end up preparing most meals myself.” He unpacked a series of glass dishes and a thermos and began opening them, steam rising out, as he explained what they were.

“It smells delicious, Doctor Lecter,” he said politely and truthfully.

“Please, Will,” he answered, smiling, “Hannibal.”

“Hannibal.” Will sat opposite him.

Hannibal smiled. “I hope we may become friendly, despite my psychological ambush yesterday. If you like, you may consider this a form of peace offering.”

Will watched as Hannibal dished out what he called “protein scramble” to both of them. “Did you really come here just to feed me breakfast?”

“That would be a worthwhile pursuit,” Hannibal answered. His smile, slight as it was, was devastating, and Will tried not to blush, “but no. As Agent Crawford could not be present this morning, I thought I would do what I could to offer my assistance. I hear you have more of a profile of this killer they’re calling the Shrike?” He pushed one plate toward Will and poured him coffee as well.

Will went for the coffee first, then stopped and looked at it. “Wow. I think I’ve been missing out.” He picked up a fork and tried some of the scramble. “This is delicious; thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Hannibal answered graciously in a way that should’ve seemed pretentious but worked for him.

Will shook himself mentally and tried to stop staring. “Right. Um. The murder yesterday, it wasn’t him. Well, wasn’t technically a murder, either. I think the Reaper was,” he paused to find the right word, “ _affronted_ , that anyone would think he was responsible. He had to prove to us he wasn’t.”

“And that helped you to get a better handle on this Shrike fellow?”

“Mm.” Will nodded and swallowed. “It’s like…seeing what the Reaper _was_ , helped me see what he _wasn’t_. In so many ways the Shrike is his complete opposite; I just needed to see one of his works to be able to tell that.”

“So, we have a profile now,” Hannibal said. “I have only seen the reports myself, but I see nothing that contradicts what you have determined. It seems, in fact, remarkably astute. What is our next step?”

Will took another sip of the amazing coffee. “Well, we found some metal in Elise Nichols’ clothing. Specific type, specific coating…” He shrugged. “So, now the police canvass construction sites and look for men who’ve worked with it, who match the profile.”

“Do you mind if I accompany you?” Hannibal asked. “Perhaps I can offer some further insight.”

“It’ll probably be pretty boring,” Will warned him.

Hannibal chuckled. “It’s that or catch up on professional journals.”

“Far be it from me to subject you to that,” Will answered wryly. He tried not to read too much into Hannibal wanting to keep his company. _Probably just wants to dissect my mind further._ “Suit yourself.”


	5. Chapter 5

_The scandal that grows up around reapers has always been a favored topic of gossip rags, and several tabloids such as the Daily Mirror made it a standard section of their issues. With the advent of radio and films, reapers also became a prevalent figure in popular entertainment, most often as hit men moonlighting on both sides of the law (_ The Public Enemy _, 1931), morally bankrupt henchmen of upstanding lawmen (_ The Fugitive _, 1963-7), or bumbling comedic figures (_ Cat Ballou _, 1965)._

_In the modern era of Internet blogs and reality TV, reapers have become a wider spectacle, and many of them decry this increased exposure, saying it makes their job a “laughingstock” or that it “makes folks expect it’s all excitement and completions”. It should be noted that of the roughly 2,500 registered full-time reapers and 6,000 more authorized by license, less than 5 percent are responsible for 89 percent of known off-site completions. Of this 5 percent, fewer than 10 individuals have ever been interviewed by anyone other than law enforcement._

— LaMoreras, G. (2010). “The effect of increased publicity on reaper completion rates and capital crimes”, _The Journal of Law Enforcement, 1(3)_ , p. 225.

 

 

With Jack handling PR and coordination, Will was forced to do his own “liaising” with the officer in charge, whose name he learned this time was Lieutenant Karimi. She greeted him and Hannibal and handed Will a printout.

“Based on the information your lab provided us with, this is a list of the sites that the metal could’ve come from. Just this state so far, but we thought that would be enough to start on. I’ve arranged them into geographical areas, and I’ve got five teams to cover them. They’ll be sending us back information on any men who fit your profile.”

“Could you have them send back anything odd?” Will asked. “Anyone they can’t determine fits or not, any anomalies? I don’t want to miss something being overly specific.”

“Of course.” She turned to her sergeant. “Call them, please; let them know.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned back to them and offered a tense smile. “And now we wait. Can I interest you gentlemen in coffee?”

 

So soon after what Hannibal had given him, the precinct coffee was especially bad. Will drank it quickly; Hannibal, he noticed, didn’t bother with it. Fortunately, after half an hour the reports started coming in and they were busy enough to ignore anything else.

“Okay, thanks.” Lieutenant Karimi hung up and pointed at the fax machine. “They’re sending over the records of all pipe fitters in the last nine months, plus their schedules and current addresses. It may take a while, though.”

Will paged through the files as they came through. He immediately discarded all but the white and Hispanic men, then anyone over fifty or under thirty-five. Hannibal brought over the work schedules for the evenings the girls had been killed, and they eliminated anyone verified too far away to have done it. “Can we get family details on these five?”

The lieutenant took his list over to another officer, who nodded. “I’m on it.”

The next several places yielded similar results, and after three hours and a bit more elimination, they had a list of fifteen possible suspects.

“Do you think we will actually find him this way?” Hannibal asked. He reached into his bag and pulled out a neat package wrapped in butcher-paper.

“Hopefully.” Will shrugged. “If nothing else, we’ll have eliminated a lot of possibilities.”

Hannibal unwrapped what turned out to be the fanciest sandwich Will had ever seen; the bread looked homemade, the meat was cut thick, and he had no idea what half the green things peeking out were. Hannibal smiled and folded the paper back neatly, sliding one half of the sandwich toward Will.

“Oh.” Will held up his hands. “Really, I’m okay.”

“Nonsense.” Hannibal gave him a look. “I will not have you eating from vending machines; it is my pleasure to feed my friends.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” Will countered, a little exasperated. “I didn’t bring you here to feed me.”

“You didn’t bring me here at all,” Hannibal pointed out. “Agent Crawford brought me, as you have no doubt surmised, to both help provide you with a profile and ensure that you have a grounding influence.” His lips quirked. “And I assure you, eating correctly is vital to grounding yourself.”

Will snorted. “Well, when you put it that way.” He picked up the sandwich carefully. “Thank you.”

Hannibal smiled. “Again, my pleasure.”

The sandwich was as amazing as breakfast had been; the meat was tender and juicy, the greens were crisp, and the bread was amazing. There were herbs or something on it, too. “Have you ever thought of giving up psychiatry for becoming a chef?”

Hannibal chuckled. “I will choose to take that as a compliment to my food, and not an insult to my psychiatry.” Will winced, a bit embarrassed at how that had come out, but Hannibal continued before he could say anything. “The thought has occurred to me, but the mind is also a passion of mine. And besides, I should hate to turn a favored hobby into a chore.”

Will thought about it and supposed he could see the sense in that.

“What about you, Will? What hobbies do you enjoy?”

Will shrugged. “I like to fish. And I tie my own flies. I’m pretty good with boat motors; I’ve rebuilt a few and sold them off.” Not that Hannibal Lecter of the three-piece suits was likely to be interested in anything involving quite so much grease and mud.

“You have a boat of your own?” Hannibal asked, and Will hesitated; he seemed genuinely curious.

“A small one,” Will admitted. “It’s —“

He was interrupted by Lieutenant Karimi joining them. She eyed their sandwich. “You always bring your own lunch on a murder investigation?” she asked, bemused.

“I bring my own lunch anywhere the alternative is prepackaged food,” Hannibal answered.

She huffed in laughter. “Takes most folks years to learn that one. Anyway.” She held up a sheaf of paper larger than the others they’d been getting. “Sorry about this one; apparently the owners are out and the receptionist was somewhat less than helpful. All the officers could find on their own was a list of hires with names, start dates, and resignation letters.”

Will picked his sandwich up and moved the wrapping out of the way, and she dropped the stack of papers in front of him. He eyed it. “If nothing else, they’re all killing trees.”

Hannibal chuckled. “A fascinating look into the reality of FBI work.”

“Could be worse.” Will snorted. “We could be out there doing the door-to-door.”

He looked over the main list and crossed out the few women on it. Then he opened the DMV database and started looking up licenses. Hannibal watched him for a moment, then took a number of pages from the bottom to do the same.

Halfway through his stack, Will finished a page and set it aside, then glanced at the next and frowned. It was a resignation letter, same basic format as all the others, only there was no forwarding address. He glanced through the overall list; everybody else had an address; this one had only a phone number. His heart beat faster, something telling him this wasn’t just coincidence. He folded the page back and turned to the computer.

“You’ve found something?” Hannibal abandoned his own list and came to look over Will’s shoulder; Will tried not to be too distracted by his nearness.

“Garret Jacob Hobbs, no forwarding address.” He glanced back at Hannibal for a second. “Could just be poor bookkeeping, but I don’t know…” Hobbs’ license came up on the screen, and Will scanned it. “Right age, Caucasian, a pipe threader.”

Hannibal turned to the pages of schedules, his eyes flicking back and forth. “He is not listed here on the weeks that the murders took place.”

Catching their excitement, the lieutenant came over, and Will pointed her to what they’d found. “Let me.” She pulled the keyboard around and typed quickly. “There are two other driver’s licenses registered to that address; Louise Hobbs, forty-two, and Abigail Hobbs, seventeen.”

“That’s him.” Staring at the pictures of the Hobbs family, Will was sure of it. Young, dark hair, the wind-chafed look. _You want to work with reapers, don’t you?_ “Abigail matches the victims’ profile.”

The lieutenant picked up the phone. “Closest team I have is Perrault and Hanneken. It’ll still take about an hour to get out there. I’ll get them right on it.”

Will called Jack to let him know. It went to voicemail, and he left a message that they might have found something.

“More waiting?” Hannibal asked, cocking an eyebrow at Will.

Will laughed. “More waiting. Well, and more sifting. Just in case it’s not him, might as well go through the rest.”

“But you believe it is him.” It wasn’t a question, but Will answered anyway.

“I’m sure it is. But I’ve learned the hard way it pays to cover your ass. Besides, it’s something to do.” He shrugged.

“Well, then. By all means, let us continue to look.”

 

Hannibal turned on the desk lamp and Will blinked and squinted at the clock, realizing it was getting dark. Hannibal chuckled and nudged his arm, offering him a bottle of water with an apologetic tilt, his expression skeptical. “I’m hoping that even a vending machine can’t go too wrong with this.”

Will snorted. “Thanks.” He took a long drink and tried to remember where in the current list they’d been.

“We were on Moreno,” Hannibal reminded him as he sat.

“Oh, right.” Will quickly found the name. “Might fit the profile. How do the jobs match up?”

“There is nothing for —“

They were interrupted by the lieutenant’s office door banging open as she barreled out.

Will exchanged a glance with Hannibal. “What —“

“Garret Jacob Hobbs saw the officers coming. Slashed his wife’s throat; she bled out at the scene. He took his daughter hostage before they could catch him.”

Will cursed and jumped up to follow her as she hurried to a conference room, calling her officers; behind them, Hannibal strode along, and Will felt a brief admiration and annoyance that the man could seem so unruffled and still keep up. _Makes you want to see if he’s ever not calm._


	6. Chapter 6

_In the ongoing struggle to maintain proper regulation of this country’s reapers, we cannot forget one very vital point: that these are American citizens choosing a dangerous occupation in order to keep the rest of us safe. Until such time as each and every one of us is willing to do that job, we would be well advised to keep from placing more obstacles in their path than already exist, lest those inclined to commit capital crimes come to outnumber those inclined to prevent them._

— Senator Casal (IL), “Bipartisan Commission on Reaper Reform”, Congressional Record 141:17 (January 27, 1995), p. S1690.

_[T]he system of registration and regulation that we have in place as regards reapers in this country is woefully inadequate to the scale  on which it currently operates. We require sex offenders to register their presence in a neighborhood; we require those caring for dangerous animals to register their presence. But once a reaper is certified, we require only a once-yearly fee and psychiatric stamp to keep them in business. We must do more. The presence of these dangerous individuals in our communities must be acknowledged, tracked, and when necessary curtailed._

— Senator Sarroca (MI), _ibid_ , p. S1694.

 

 

Lieutenant Karimi briefed everyone there on what had happened, then turned to Will and Hannibal. “Agent Crawford wants you joining him in Minneapolis. Grab your things and get me your keys; I’ll take care of your rental. Gunnerson,” she called to a sergeant, “you’re with them; they’ll need someone who knows the area.”

Gunnerson held up a hand in acknowledgement. “I’ll bring a car around.”

Will watched the lieutenant work as they waited for him. She pulled the rest of her officers off the search and had them head for the highways to try and box Hobbs in, but she looked worried. “There are too many back roads, too many acres to cover it all. We’re checking into other property he may own, friends and family.” She stared at the map as she pushed another pin in.

“Can you get me a list?” Will asked. “I might be able to help.”

She nodded at him. “I’ll send it down there as soon as I have it.”

The drive to Minneapolis thrummed with tension. Even running the siren and putting on as much speed as they could, it took a couple hours, and Will’s mind kept running over what he knew of the Shrike’s methods and motives, desperately searching for the strategy that would get Abigail Hobbs out of this alive.

Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder startled him, and Hannibal gave him an apologetic glance and squeezed it before letting go. “If he wanted to kill her, she would be dead already. Remember, he kills these others because he can’t bear to let her go.”

“And if he sees no other escape, he’ll kill her to keep her with him,” Will answered.

Hannibal shrugged. “That’s a worry for after we know where he is. He’ll keep her alive until then.”

Will huffed in laughter. “I envy you your ability to compartmentalize.”

“A necessary trait in a doctor, both a surgeon and a psychiatrist.” Hannibal tipped his head. 

Will flicked a glance at him and away. That was true, but there was something else behind it. He sighed. _Profile the killer now, the colleagues later._

 

The FBI offices in Minneapolis were a study in organized chaos. The receptionist directed them to the third-floor conference room that was being used to coordinate the task force to find Hobbs, and they found Jack in the center of a swarm of agents and police. Agent Zawalski stood next to him, arms crossed and an unhappy frown on his face.

“Wider,” Jack was telling the hapless agent in front of him. “I want that everywhere in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Idaho, and the Dakotas, plus every airport in the country.”

“Yes, sir.” The agent headed off; he had an informational flyer in his hand, and Will glanced at it, looked longer, and pointed back at it as they joined the lead agents.

“Did that say ‘rogue reaper’?” Beside him, he felt Hannibal’s disapproval.

“Yes,” Jack answered bluntly.

Will glanced between Jack and Zawalski. “Garret Jacob Hobbs doesn’t have a reaper’s license; we checked.”

Agent Zawalski’s unhappy expression deepened. “Not as far as we know,” he said, clearly reluctant.

“He didn’t,” Will answered firmly. “He hates the profession, wants nothing to do with it.”

“So you’ve said,” Jack spoke up. “Unfortunately, Minnesota’s a big place, and that doesn’t get us any help in covering it.”

Will scowled at Jack’s tie for a moment, then realization dawned. “You’re making him a target.”

Agent Zawalski grunted in unhappy agreement. “It’s the only way we stand a chance of finding him while Abigail Hobbs is still alive. Unfortunately, no-one actually _saw_ Garret Jacob Hobbs slit Louise Hobbs’ throat, and he’s a custodial parent, so there’s no proven kidnapping yet. No judge would agree to a lethal manhunt based on that.”

More pieces fell into place. “You can’t prove any of the other murders yet, but they’re the same MO as the one confirmed to be the Chesapeake Reaper’s. So you’re throwing the Reaper under the bus, saying Garret Jacob Hobbs is him, so you can target him.”

Jack looked at him mildly. “We haven’t said anything of the sort. Just that Hobbs is a killer wanted on suspicion of any number of murders, and that his MO matches the one for which a DNA confirmation was sent. If we find Hobbs, we can verify he is or isn’t the Reaper, but either way, we’ll have caught him.”

“That is disingenuous, Agent Crawford,” Hannibal interjected, his voice mild. “I imagine the press have already made the expected conclusions from that, and will be communicating as much to the public.”

“I imagine they will,” Jack answered back pleasantly. “But I have a murderer to catch right now, and I’m not going to take the time to worry about getting some reaper’s panties in a bunch. Now, if you’d like to help with that,” he included Will in his glance, “Lieutenant Karimi sent over a list of places Hobbs might be holed up in, if he isn’t trying to flee the country.” He picked up a fax and handed it to Will.

Will glanced at Hannibal, and something in his face caught him. Looking away, Will pictured his expression — mostly pleasant, faintly annoyed; nothing unexpected. But it nagged him even while he took the list over to an unused desk. **_Nothing_** _unexpected._


	7. Chapter 7

_Sources close to the investigation state that while they can neither confirm nor deny his identity, there is a strong suspicion that Garret Jacob Hobbs is both the killer recently dubbed the “Minnesota Shrike” and the infamous Chesapeake Reaper. While that very uncertainty has many people questioning the government’s ability to keep reapers in check, reapers themselves are gearing up for a manhunt the likes of which hasn’t been seen in years._

_— Melanie Valls, WRPT News_

_REAPER RIPPER MANHUNT! The Minnesota Shrike, now identified as Garret Jacob Hobbs, has taken flight as other reapers prepare to chase him to ground! Yes, that’s ‘other’ reapers — if there was any doubt, the FBI’s application for a manhunt leaves little doubt that the Minnesota Shrike is actually the Chesapeake Reaper. And now people everywhere want to know, how did this murderer get a license, and how did nobody know who he was? Where is your tax money going?_

_— Freddie Lounds, Tattlecrime.com_

 

 

Will found a free computer and called up a map of the state, punching in the first address from the list; Garret Jacob Hobbs’ parents’ house. “Looks like a fairly densely-packed suburb.”

“Middle-class, mostly bedroom community,” Gunnerson commented from over his shoulder. Will startled, having forgotten he was there. “It’s popular with folks with kids, ‘cause there aren’t too many big roads around.”

“Too many people, no easy access.” Will crossed it off. “Next is Louise Hobbs’ parents.”

“I doubt it,” Hannibal offered. “Even if they’ve heard nothing, he won’t seek refuge with them having just cut their daughter’s throat.”

“Not even ‘cause we’d think that?” Gunnerson asked, a little dubious. “Or because he hates her and wants to kill them, too?”

“He doesn’t hate her,” Will corrected. “She was just in the way. She wouldn’t understand about him and Abigail, so she couldn’t come with them. He didn’t want her saying anything, and the officers would have to stop chasing him to see to her. Killing her was a ploy to buy him time.”

Gunnerson looked like he might argue again, but Hannibal broke in, one finger tracing down the list. “I should think he’d want his own place; somewhere he knows he’s in control, and with a proper field of vision, since that’s what saved him this time. Yes?”

“Definitely,” Will agreed. He looked the list over, his eye catching on one entry the same time Hannibal’s finger stopped there. “A hunting cabin. That’s it.” He pulled it up quickly on the map. “No neighbors, no anything; this doesn’t show elevation, but that whole area looks pretty hilly. No highways nearby, but if I know places like this, there’s probably dozens of tiny roads that nobody but locals know.” He looked at Gunnerson, who agreed reluctantly.

“Yeah. Fire roads, ranger tracks, hell, places folks have worn down enough to drive and not marked. There’s no way to know short of surrounding the place.”

“That’s where he’ll be headed to. Jack!”

 

They directed the local cops and federal agents toward the area, hoping to corner Hobbs before he knew they were there. The huge map on one wall sprouted blue and green pins as they moved in, then red as several reapers checked in and made their positions known.

“Damn it, where are the men on 73? They should be in position by now,” Jack growled at one of the agents manning the radio.

“Truck blocking the connector; they’re on their way,” the man answered, moving the pin a bit closer.

“Three more reapers reporting to Duluth,” another agent spoke up. He moved their pins into position. “No telling how fast they’ll be in place.”

“He chose his ground well,” Hannibal murmured from his place by Will. They’d been mostly forgotten in the focus on Hobbs, their part of the job done. “It will be difficult to move enough people to surround him without his noticing.”

“Mm,” Will agreed. “He may be crazy, but he’s not stupid.”

“Crazy?” Hannibal side-eyed him, but his lips twitched in what Will was learning was amusement. “Is that your professional opinion, Doctor Graham?”

Will chuckled. “Okay, ‘disturbed’? What would you call it?” He shook his head, growing more serious. “He’s not a psychopath; he genuinely cares for Abigail. He’s certainly not healthy. How would you classify him?”

Hannibal pursed his lips. “‘Disturbed’ perhaps comes as close as anything. He likely has abandonment issues; I don’t think you need a degree to see that. Possibly a level of dissociation to allow him to distance himself from his actions. I wouldn’t presume to say more without meeting him.”

“Let’s hope we get that chance,” Will said a bit grimly. “I’d hate to lose him now; I doubt Abigail would survive.”

 

They watched into the night as more personnel poured into the area. Satellite imagery on a pass over confirmed human presence in the cabin, and a neighbor from a few miles away on a careful drive past reported Hobbs’ truck in the driveway.

“Should we evacuate the locals?” Lance Corrigan, the lead Minneapolis agent, looked over the map.

“Too much activity,” his SWAT captain argued. “We don’t want to alert him.”

“Agreed.” Jack Crawford said. “We’ve already lost him once. Make sure they know to keep out of the way; they’re all far enough out it shouldn’t cause problems. How soon till we’ll know we have him?”

“We’ve blocked off all the major roads, and every other way out we could find.” Corrigan swirled a finger at the map. “Now we just tighten the noose. We’ll have another satellite pass in a few hours; if he’s still there, we have him.”

It was tense as they waited, and nobody even made a move to head off to bed. Around four a.m. Will found himself rubbing his eyes, then blinking as a cup of coffee materialized in front of his face, attached to Hannibal’s arm.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. Their hands brushed as he took the mug, and Will tried not to flush as Hannibal’s finger traced along his palm. “You don’t have to stay up, you know,” he pointed out reluctantly. “We know who the killer is, and I’m not going to be getting into his head anymore unless something goes wrong. You could go get some sleep.”

Hannibal chuckled. “I practiced emergency-room surgery for some years; I’m well acquainted with long shifts. And lots of coffee.” Hannibal toasted him with his own cup, the stained and chipped FBI logo looking a bit incongruous paired with his impeccable dress and elegant hands.

Will toasted back, took a sip, and groaned his appreciation. “This isn’t cafeteria coffee. Did you brew your own again?”

Hannibal shrugged. “It’s not quite vacuum brewed, but I do have a small French press. It keeps the oils in and avoids making it taste like paper and plastic.”

“You keep feeding me like this, I’ll end up marrying you.” His brain caught up to his mouth a second too late. “Oh, god. I’m sorry; I must be more tired than I thought.” He wasn’t usually so forward, interest or not.

“Drink your coffee, Will,” Hannibal answered. He smiled, more a softening of his face and a wrinkle of his eyes than anything. “No apologies necessary. Do you see me offering this to anyone else here? Or sandwiches?”

Will looked around, more to make sure that they were still being ignored than to check. When he turned back, Hannibal was still smiling. “So this isn’t just about keeping me grounded or apologizing for the psychoanalytic ambush?”

Hannibal eyed him curiously. “You have no problems reading people in the field; you don’t apply that to the ones around you?”

“Not if I can help it,” Will answered firmly. And if there was a touch of bitterness there, maybe he’d be forgiven. “In my experience, people tend to abandon you pretty quickly if they think you’re picking their brains apart. They think you’ll end up judging them for all their secrets, or that you’re mocking them.”

Hannibal’s lips tightened. “Clearly you’ve been spending time with the wrong people. I told you before that I can’t turn my observations off. I will never expect you to, either. In fact, I would be rather disappointed were you to do so. I find your mind quite fascinating.”

Will looked away quickly, his stomach twisting. “So do a lot of shrinks.”

Hannibal straightened and took a deep breath, turning away. Will winced. “Sorry. I guess I shouldn’t complain about people treating me like a pariah for analyzing them and then do the same to you.”

“I understand your skepticism,” Hannibal answered, “but I have neither need nor desire to pull you apart to find out how you work. Or at the very least, I am capable of containing those impulses.” He met Will’s eyes, and Will fought not to look away. “What you have is pure empathy. You can assume others’ points of view, sometimes to an extent that frightens you.” He nodded towards Jack Crawford. “Even Uncle Jack knows that. He sees you as fragile because of it. He asked for me to ground you because he thinks you fear losing yourself. But that’s not it, is it?”

Will swallowed, fighting back panic. “Not entirely.” It was barely a whisper; a part of him wanted to stop Hannibal, to shake him and make those words stop coming, but another part was relieved, and it won out.

“No,” Hannibal agreed. “You don’t fear losing yourself so much as finding yourself, finding that you are the same as these killers you study. You don’t avoid letting people in to keep them from knowing you; you avoid it because you don’t want them tainted by the darkness that you see inside yourself.”

Will’s heart was pounding, and he couldn’t quite focus on any one thing; he felt trapped, eyes darting around to find an escape.

“Will.” Hannibal gripped his shoulder, and Will gasped, the contact breaking through.

He sucked in a breath and clenched his fists, resorting to anger. “Was that supposed to prove something, Doctor Lecter?” he forced out. “Or was it just a demonstration of you not pulling me apart?”

Hannibal’s hand gentled, his thumb rubbing circles in the hollow of Will’s clavicle. “No part of that analysis involves bringing you food or drink, dear Will.” Hannibal’s expression was gently reproving. “Or indeed many of the things I have done to help you.”

There was something conspiratorial in his expression, something that spoke of a shared secret, and Will swallowed down his immediate reaction to smack that hand away. “What is it, then? Are you flirting with me? Or is it all just…friendly gestures?” Confusion warred with his anger.

“I’m amenable to whichever you prefer,” Hannibal answered with a shrug. “Above anything else, I would like for you to feel comfortable with me, to feel that you are able to be yourself.”

Still raw from Hannibal’s assessment, Will had a sudden glimpse of insight before he could stifle it. _I’m lonely because I’m different. I see a kindred spirit and I want to claim it, but I won’t beg. Won’t bend too far, because that would be losing myself._ He glanced up at Hannibal, risking a glance at his eyes, and there was something there, something dark and guarded, but his mouth softened in another of his tiny smiles, this one definitely tinged with approval.

Will shook his head to clear it, and realized Hannibal’s hand was still on his shoulder. Will straightened his shirt and stepped back, letting the hand fall, but nodded. “Thanks.” He hunted up the last thread of conversation. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s a very good start,” Hannibal assured him.


	8. Chapter 8

_I remember when I was a boy, my folks always told me to stay away from Mr. Kusick three streets over. Never made any sense to me till I went to school and listened to the news and started hearing what reapers did, and that’s what he was. I thought, he must be an awful man, killing people for money. I hated him along with the rest of the boys, threw rocks at his windows when we didn’t think we’d get caught, egged his house on Halloween._

_After school I got sent to Vietnam. “Kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out,” we had on our patches. The things I saw over there, things I did, they were ten times worse than I imagine Mr. Kusick, God rest his soul, ever got up to. Then I got sent home, and there weren’t no jobs for a half-handed vet, and the kids my age were already spitting on me as a killer, and I thought, why the hell not? Might as well get to feed myself. So I went and got my license._

_Don’t make the spitting any easier to take, don’t make my folks disowning me sting any less, but at least I’m alive, I guess. Don’t think I’ve ever terminated anyone didn’t deserve it, but I ain’t the judge. All these years, still trusting the government to point and tell me to shoot. Let God sort ‘em out, right?_

— Balsas, P. (1973). _Interviews with the devil: Reapers in their own words_ , pp. 16-17.

 

 

By dawn, the noose had tightened to just a few miles, and everyone held their collective breath waiting for news from the satellite pass.

“Thermal imaging of two people in the house, and the truck’s still in the driveway,” the agent listening to the report called out, relieved. A few of the agents in the room clapped each other’s shoulders.

Jack Crawford straightened, his shoulders tightening. “Corrigan?”

Corrigan gave the order to the SWAT captain, who spoke into the radio. “Tighten it up. Remember there’s a civilian hostage.”

“Yes, sir,” came several quiet replies.

There were faint rustling noises and indistinct words in the tone of orders, then silence for a few long minutes.

“Team one reporting,” was the next they heard. “About five hundred meters out, all quiet.”

“Team two reporting. Five hundred meters.”

“Team three reporting. Five-fifty; any closer’s an open riverbank.”

The others reported in, then the officer from team six came back on the line. “Wait. Still no trouble so far, but Sassy sees something.”

“Lynn Sasaki, their sniper,” the captain explained. “What do you see?”

“Two people,” a woman’s voice murmured back. “Thirty meters from the house, on our two o’clock. Girl’s toward me; matches the description of Abigail Hobbs. Man’s got his back to me; hair color and height are right for Garret Jacob Hobbs, can’t tell anything else.”

“Team five?” the captain prompted.

“Got ‘em,” came the reply. “Had to move in ten meters to clear the terrain. They seem to be arguing.”

“At least that’ll keep them busy,” Corrigan said in a low voice.

The captain nodded and spoke to the field officers. “See how close you can get; we may only get one shot at this.”

There was a brief exchange on the other end, then the first officer’s voice came back. “Moving now.”

There was movement, then silence. Then a sharp crack and a scream, and the officers were yelling. Some of them were cursing. Will’s stomach sank.

“Shannon, what’s going on there?” the captain barked. “Who the hell fired? I didn’t authorize that! Teams one through five, move in while you can!”

“Wasn’t us, sir!” came the hurried reply from team six as the others acknowledged the new orders. “Mass, get down there!” he ordered to one of his team. “Harm, on your left; Sassy, keep an eye out! Who fired that shot?”

“Left and down, three hundred yards,” Sasaki barked. “There.”

“On it, boss,” came a new voice.

A minute later, there was more cursing and thrashing. “Get the fuck off me, you military goon!”

“Who the hell are you,” Shannon yelled, “and what are you doing firing in the middle of an op?”

“It’s a legit completion! I took him down, I get the fees!”

“A fucking reaper?” Will could hear the contempt in Shannon’s voice.

“Hey, I did what you were too chickenshit to,” the reaper answered, “I brought him down.”

“For values of ‘him’ being ‘not Garret Jacob Hobbs’, asshole,” another voice chimed in.

Corrigan cursed and paled; Jack’s knuckles tightened on the back of a chair. Zawalski rubbed a hand over his face.

“Report, Shannon,” the captain ordered.

“Sir, we’ve got Abigail Hobbs. Alive. The man she was arguing with was shot in the head by a — Harm, get his papers — Marcus Sadlo, a reaper out of Valley City. Mass, you got ID on the guy?”

“Nicholas Boyle,” Mass answered. “Twenty-five. Wisconsin driver’s license.”

“Boyle?” Jack asked.

Will could see it as clearly as if he’d been there. “Cassie Boyle’s his sister. They were close; he said he’d look out for her. When he heard Hobbs was the Reaper, he came to confront him.”

“And he found Abigail,” Jack finished grimly. “Damn it!”

“Team one reporting, sir,” came the officer’s voice over the radio, and the noise died down as they stopped to listen. “We’re in, the cabin’s secured. Hobbs is wounded but alive.”

Corrigan looked to Crawford. “Your call, Jack.”

Jack’s lips thinned. “Bring him in. I’m sure we’ve all got some questions.”

He agreed, and the SWAT captain relayed his instructions into the radio.

“Ambulance is on the way,” team one reported back. “He took two in the shoulder and one in the leg, no vital organs. He’ll live.” He didn’t sound terribly concerned, but Will couldn’t fault him for that. “If we can keep the mentally challenged assholes away.”

“Understood, team one,” the SWAT captain answered. “Keep an eye on Hobbs. Team six, cuff Sadlo and keep him there. Keep an eye on Miss Hobbs and Boyle’s body. All other teams, clear out anyone in the area without a badge.”

They agreed, relief plain in their voices. “Clear out the vermin,” a voice they hadn’t heard yet muttered, just within pickup range.

Zawalski sighed. Will looked at him, and he shrugged. “Not worth it to argue. It’d sure make my job easier, though, if everyone could treat reapers like human beings.”

“Maybe if they acted like it, we would,” Corrigan answered him. “Sorry, Mike, but one of them just killed an innocent man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he’s not even sorry about it.”

“I’ve already flagged him for review,” Zawalski protested. “We don’t want folks like him licensed, either, but he’s one out of thousands. Hell, out there he was one of five. Four of them held fire and helped surround the suspect. And those are the ones your people are going to be taking it out on now.”

Corrigan shrugged. “Sorry; I can’t get too worked up about their feelings. They knew what the job was when they took it.”

Zawalski ran a hand through his thinning hair and looked about to protest again, but stopped himself short. After a moment, Corrigan turned back to the radio.

“Not worth arguing about?” Hannibal asked Zawalski, faint amusement on his face.

Zawalski blew out a breath and laughed. “Heck, if I was afraid of lost causes, I never would’ve taken this job.”

“I’ve seen the statistics,” Hannibal told him. “Reaper licensure is down ten percent over the last five years, reaper fatalities are down by five percent, closures are up by seven percent, and collateral deaths are down nearly twenty percent. You’re very good at your job.”

Zawalski looked pleased, but shook his head. “And still public perception is nearly unchanged. The vast majority of people think reapers are a necessary evil. They still have a suicide rate double that of the general population and a violent death rate five times higher than cops.” He looked up at Hannibal. “Eight murders. Five before the FBI was even called in.”

“No humans involved.” Hannibal pursed his lips.

“Not until a reaper’s secretary was killed,” Zawalski confirmed. “The local police were barely even looking into it.”

“Reapers are tainted because they deal in death,” Hannibal noted. “Easier to ignore than to admit what their job says about all of us.”

“Not to mention the problems are what people remember,” Will added. “Reapers like Sadlo are what they base their opinions on. Not the four others out there doing their jobs.” He snorted. “Whose names _we_ don’t even know.”

Zawalski sighed. “Why do you think the Chesapeake Reaper’s style is so good for us? People may argue over his aesthetic sense and whether his targets deserve that treatment, some may say he’s a sadist and a psychopath and downright inhuman, but he’s high visibility, no-one’s ever seriously argued anyone he took down wasn’t a legitimate target, and he’s never hurt anyone else.”

“And he’s different enough,” Hannibal pointed out, “inhuman enough, that people can let themselves be titillated by his work and not connect themselves to him at all.” Zawalski shrugged in agreement.

“So why undermine it all? Why let Jack say Hobbs was the Reaper?” Will asked.

Zawalski slumped. “I fought Jack tooth and nail on that, but in the end, we needed to get Hobbs. It was the only angle we could come up with. Now we have him, we’ll get his blood from the EMTs, compare the DNA, and get all the publicity we can on the fact he’s not the Reaper.” He smiled without humor. “Jack’s career’ll take the hit on that; it was his calculated risk.”

“But you still don’t have any evidence tying him to the murders,” Will pointed out.

“We may yet find something.” Zawalski looked at the corkboard with the victims’ pictures on it. “Personally, I’d love to give them justice. But we can definitely get him for the murder of his wife. And the kidnapping of his daughter, if she’ll testify. That may have to be enough.”


	9. Chapter 9

_“In systems such as feudal monarchy where those being executed had no rights other than those granted them by the crown, it raised no questions to have someone handed a death sentence without benefit of a trial at which they were present. With the advent of democracy and demands for due process, however, governments have chosen different ways of addressing the problem presented by such procedures._

_While some countries, such as Sweden, have chosen to disallow trials in absentia entirely, the United States has never seriously contemplated such a move. While this doubtlessly comes in part from underlying political considerations, it is also heavily influenced by geography — the sheer size of the US has always given those accused of capital crimes increased opportunities to escape justice. Thus the (heavily constrained) process of judicially sanctioned manhunts, which continues with few detractors to this day._

— Sadkovitz, J. (2001). _The business of death_ , p. 46.

 

 

Will tried his best to stay awake in the airport as they waited for the flight back to Baltimore, but even practically mainlining shitty coffee wasn’t doing much good. He jolted out of a doze when Hannibal gripped his arm, only then realizing he’d apparently been using the man’s shoulder as a head rest.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his face.

“I don’t mind,” Hannibal answered, his voice soothing and a little amused. “But they’re beginning boarding. Also, I thought you might like to see this.” He held out his tablet.

Will took it, sitting up as he focused on the text. _Reaper Ripper Captured_ , it read. And in smaller print beneath that, _DNA Test Shows Garett Jacob Hobbs not the Chesapeake Reaper_. “Zawalski got the news out fast.” He handed the tablet back to Hannibal and stood.

“Mm.” Hannibal nodded and tucked it into his carry-on. “Unfortunately, this will bring up other questions.”

“Like how they could’ve made that mistake in the first place,” Will agreed. The Reaper’s identity being unknown wouldn’t go over well.

“They’re claiming a paperwork problem for now. We’ll see if it holds up.” Hannibal headed toward the line, and Will let himself be led. Right up until Hannibal steered him into the first class cabin. 

Will frowned and looked at his ticket. “I know I’m tired, but I’m pretty sure I’m back in coach.”

Hannibal’s lips quirked. “I may have spoken to the crew,” he confessed. “The flight isn’t full, and you are a federal officer exhausted after a very long day of catching a dangerous fugitive. They were happy to adjust your seating.”

Will eyed him. “I should probably be objecting, but right now I’m too tired. Thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Hannibal let him go first and took the aisle seat.

After a moment, Will sank into the other and sighed gratefully. He was half asleep again by the time the stewardess came by. Hannibal passed him the pillow she offered, and Will drifted off again to the feel of Hannibal settling a blanket securely around his shoulders.

 

He was feeling a bit better by the time they landed, his brain not quite so fuzzy. He winced and stretched as they gathered their things and headed out. “I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed again.”

“Hotels are never quite the same, are they?” Hannibal agreed. As they headed for the parking garage, he turned to Will. “Once you’ve had a chance to settle back in, I would very much enjoy your company for dinner. Say, tomorrow evening around seven?”

Will hesitated, very much aware this wasn’t a professional relationship any longer. But, _whichever you prefer_ , Hannibal had promised, and though he hadn’t really delved into the doctor’s psyche, he felt confident in the fact he would keep his word. He nodded his head a little jerkily. “I think I’d like that.”

Hannibal chuckled. “I hope you will. Well, I am over there.” He gestured toward the other side of the lot. “Until tomorrow, then. You have my number.”

“Tomorrow,” Will agreed. He watched Hannibal go for a moment, wondering what the classy and meticulous man would drive, then headed for his own car and the long trip back to Wolf Trap.

 

The dogs were glad to see him, and he crouched on the floor to give them plenty of attention before dumping his things in the laundry and bathroom. There was a note by the phone, _Call me when you’re back — Alana_ , and he smiled and carried the phone to the couch, yawning again. Martha and Lizzie jumped up on his lap, and he laughed and wrestled them to one side, petting them as he dialed.

“Hi, Will,” Alana answered warmly.

“How do you know it’s me?” He countered. “It could be a burglar. Or one of these sweet brats demanding more food.” He ruffled Lizzie’s fur.

“If your dogs learn to dial the phone, I’ll start worrying.” She laughed. “Everything okay? I heard the news, I can imagine what Jack had you working on.”

“I’m fine,” he assured her, and sighed. “Or I will be. Just need a few days to clear Garett Jacob Hobbs out of my brain.” He hesitated. He didn’t exactly make it a habit of talking about his personal life, but if anyone would know… “Hey, um. Do you know Doctor Hannibal Lecter?”

“Hannibal?” She sounded surprised and maybe a little worried. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Huh?” Her question threw him for a loop until he realized how that must have sounded. “Oh, he’s fine! Sorry. You do know him, then?”

She breathed a sigh of relief, and her voice turned wry. “Who do you think recommended him to Jack? He was my mentor at Johns Hopkins. If Jack was determined to have you out there, I wanted someone who could have your back. And I thought you might appreciate not being treated like a fascinating bug.”

Will laughed. “Well, at least not any more than he treats anyone like that.”

Her rueful laugh joined his. “I guess he can be a little intense and aloof. But he knows when to push and when to back off. He does his patients a lot of good, and he’ll respect your boundaries.”

“That’s…definitely good to know.” Will rubbed his neck, smiling nervously. “Considering I think I have a date with him tomorrow.”

Alana was silent for a moment, and Will had the feeling he’d shocked her. “A _date_? You have a date with Hannibal?”

“Well, he, um. Invited me for dinner. And I’m pretty sure we’ve sort of been flirting. But he did say he only wants what I’m comfortable with, so.” She was quiet long enough that he started to worry. “Alana? You don’t think that’s a problem, do you?”

“What? No!” He could practically hear her getting her thoughts in order. “You’re both adults, I trust your judgement. I just never would have thought you’d be each other’s type.”

“How do you mean?” he asked curiously.

“Will,” she told him fondly, “you collect dogs and greasy motors. Hannibal throws dinner parties for the upper crust and has season tickets to the opera. And I know your feelings about rich people.”

Will hummed in acknowledgement. “I don’t know; he just doesn’t strike me like that. He’s…down to earth.”

“He can be. And I know you appreciate culture when you let yourself. Maybe you should let yourself,” she suggested archly. A note of disapproval crept into her tone. “He’s not still acting as your psychiatrist now the case is over, is he?”

Will shook his head. “I’m not really sure he ever was, but yeah. No professional violations, promise.”

“Well, then, good luck to you both.” She chuckled. “I reserve the right to tease him mercilessly about it, but I’ll go easy on you.”

“Thank you for your consideration, Doctor Bloom,” he replied dryly.

“Never mind,” she answered after a moment, “I can completely see you as each other’s type.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”

“That’s okay; neither am I.”

They laughed together again and said their good-byes, then Will got up to let the dogs out before he headed back to bed.

 

Will still slept a bit uneasily, but did his best to go back to sleep each time images of Elise Nichols and Cassie Boyle woke him up. He finally crawled out of bed around ten, more or less rested. He fed the dogs and grabbed some cereal, sipping coffee as he watched them play in the grass after. It was getting colder out; they might even have snow soon. He wondered if suave and cool Doctor Hannibal Lecter would be the type to cuddle in front of a fire; he’d have said not, but he hadn’t seemed to mind being a pillow, so there was always a chance.

He smiled into his coffee. Seven o’clock. He should probably buy a nice bottle of wine or something.

Will’s phone rang around noon, and he set his wrench aside and scrambled for it, tensing when the caller ID said it was Jack. “Hello?”

“Will.” Jack’s voice was grim. “Hobbs is out.”

“What?” Will’s heart leapt to his throat. He couldn’t have — “I thought you had him!”

“We did!” Jack growled. “He went for an MRI. There was a fault in the system, the coolant vented, caused an explosion. They had to evacuate the suite. He overpowered the guard and made it out.”

Will swallowed and closed his eyes. Not released, then. Still. “Awfully convenient, don’t you think?”

“First thing we thought,” Jack answered. “No evidence of foul play yet, though.” Then he snorted. “And if he did have help, they didn’t give too much of a shit about him — the techs were lucky to get him out before he asphyxiated.”

“Something’s not right,” Will insisted.

“You think I’d be calling you if I didn’t know that?” Jack retorted. “Hobbs is still walking dead; we caught the judge before he nullified the order. Zawalski’s still in chambers with him, but it looks like it’ll stand. I need you out here to tell me what happened and where we can expect Hobbs to go now. Your ticket’s waiting at the airport already; I’m calling Doctor Lecter next.”

Will sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“Can I count on you, Will?” Jack’s voice was firm, but below it Will could hear the tense worry driving him. He grimaced.

“I’ll be there, Jack.”

“Good, good. I’ll send someone to meet you at the airport. Get some sleep on the flight.”

Will swore as he hung up. Translation: he wouldn’t get much once he got there. Again. He eyed the dogs and called Alana.


	10. Chapter 10

_“Before the advent of fingerprinting — and later, DNA testing — reapers would identify their completions with a code word or phrase as verification. Since the clerks and examiners processing the information would, of necessity, have access to these phrases, there are a number of cases on record where acknowledgement and payment were disputed. These days, such errors and deliberate misrepresentation are much more difficult, but the cost is that reapers are, to some extent, known publicly for what they are. Any lawyer with sufficient argument for a judge can obtain a reaper’s licensure paperwork, and you need look only so far as the unfortunate incidents surrounding Joshua Prevost’s outing to see the damage that such knowledge can do to an individual’s life and social standing.”_

— Lecter, H. (2009). “Social exclusion as a function of legal stratification”, _International Journal of Social Psychiatry, 55(7),_ p. 13.

 

 

He was at the airport by one-thirty, and found himself being fast-tracked through security for a flight that left at a quarter after two. Hannibal was at the gate by the time he got there, and gave him a rueful smile.

“Not exactly how I pictured tonight going,” Will acknowledged.

“Some things can’t be helped, I suppose.” Hannibal lifted one shoulder in a barely-there shrug.

“Like wanted murderers escaping from custody?” Will asked acerbically. He couldn’t wait to see how that had happened.

Hannibal hummed. “An unintentional magnetic quenching can be catastrophic. While his escape likely should have been prevented, I’m reluctant to place blame upon the hospital workers.”

Will eyed him curiously. “Is that what happened? Jack said something about coolant, but I’m not really sure what that means for an MRI.”

“The magnet is supercooled,” Hannibal explained. “If there’s damage to the container, the liquid helium can become gas and expand explosively. It’s supposed to vent outside, but,” he shrugged. “It has been known to bring down buildings, and asphyxia is also a real danger. Not to mention, I would imagine having a wall of toxic steam come at you is rather daunting.”

“What do you think could’ve caused it?” Will asked.

Hannibal pursed his lips. “Difficult to say. We’ll probably have to wait for an investigation. Or at least forensics.”

They headed onto the plane, and Will again found himself in first class, though at least this time his ticket was for the seat. He gave Hannibal a look, sure he must have had something to do with it.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow and offered a faint smirk. “You wouldn’t want me to fly alone, would you?”

“I’d hate to force you, Doctor Lecter,” Will answered, laughing.

“Well, then.” Hannibal waved him into his seat. “After you.”

 

The flight was uneventful, and Will did manage to sleep a bit. So, he was amused to see, did Hannibal. There was something about seeing the most put-together man he’d ever met stretch out with his shoes off and his hair mussed by a tiny pillow that was rather adorable. It was almost disappointing to watch him wake up and smooth his hair and clothes back down.

Hannibal glanced at him briefly, then again, and smiled. “I hope you didn’t spend all your time watching me.”

Will blushed and chuckled. “I did get some sleep. I’m not sure at this point if I’m jet lagged or my body is just hopelessly confused.”

“Mm.” Hannibal grimaced in agreement. “I will be very glad to see the end of this affair.” He looked over at Will. “Then perhaps we’ll manage to have a real dinner together.”

“I was looking forward to tonight,” Will confessed.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Hannibal placed a hand carefully on Will’s arm. It felt surprisingly good, comforting rather than intrusive, and Will smiled at him. “Unfortunately, I suppose some things can’t wait.”

“Rude of them,” Will teased.

Hannibal chuckled.

 

Gunnerson met them at the curb outside baggage claim.

“What, are you our permanent driver now?” Will asked.

The sergeant shrugged as he opened the trunk for their bags. “I was just heading home when the news came in. Since I haven’t really got a position down here, figured I’d stick around and be of use. Lieutenant thought having a set of ears on site couldn’t hurt. Sorry you guys had to head back; can’t be fun.”

“I hope the FBI’s getting frequent flyer miles for this,” Will answered drolly. “Any new information yet?” He hoisted his bag into the trunk and stood aside to let Hannibal do the same.

“They’ve cleared out the MRI suite.” Gunnerson opened the doors and waited till they started up to continue. “Pretty bad damage all around; they can’t tell yet if there was any kind of sabotage or if it just went bang on its own. But they’re not sure where the request for Hobbs’ MRI came from; his doctor says she didn’t order it.”

“There has to have been a name on the request,” Hannibal noted, leaning forward. “Whose was it?”

“It came in under her name,” Gunnerson answered. “But it was all electronic, so that just means it came from her computer. Or someone who knew her password. And they’re not ruling out the possibility she’s lying, either.”

He drove them straight to the hospital, and an agent met them at the door. Jack Crawford was in the MRI suite watching the forensics team process it. “Nothing new if Gunnerson filled you in,” he told them. “We’re still looking, but there’s no proof of any foul play yet. Corrigan’s heading the search for Hobbs, but there’s nothing there so far, either.”

Will stepped closer to the machine, Hannibal trailing behind him. Katz glanced over at him and dug out an extra pair of nitrile gloves. “Here. We’ve determined the area the coolant leak started in; not hard, since it was pretty much demolished from the inside out.” She led them around the side and pointed to the place. “Whether it’s structural weakness or sabotage there’s no telling yet.”

Zeller snorted. “Please, you think this was an accident?”

“What I think and what I can prove are two different things,” she pointed out.

“How would someone have gone about sabotaging it, if they wanted to?” Will asked, squinting at the twisted metal.

“Pinhole puncture,” Katz suggested.

“It would have to be very small,” Hannibal countered. “Anything large enough to be visible would be caught by the safety sensors.”

“Unless the sensors were sabotaged,” she argued. “Price is checking all the prints on the console against hospital staff.”

Will tuned them out and closed his eyes, working the scene backward in his mind.

_I’ve sent the order; Hobbs will be the first one here in the morning. I’ve made my way down here to set the stage._

He frowned, remembering the door on the way in. “There’s a keycard lock on the suite; who was in here between last night and this morning?”

“Janitorial staff,” Zeller answered. “Regular cleaning schedule. Guards on rounds. No-one else.”

Will let the words join the picture already forming.

_I use the cleaning crew as a blind. I move in while they’re here and wait, or I block the lock and come in after they’re gone. Now I have time to work._

_I’ll make sure he’s the first one here, but a leak is too unpredictable._ Will eyed the machine. “How much coolant would it have to lose for this to happen?”

“Depends on the magnet,” Zeller answered. “Once you warm up part of it, it just keeps going.”

“Could our hypothetical saboteur have let out enough to start it warming up, then just waited?”

“It would’ve happened too fast,” Zeller said dismissively. “He’d have had to be here just minutes before.”

“Not necessarily,” Hannibal countered. He stood behind Will and gestured at the machine. “The magnet slowly boils off the helium as it operates. It has to be added back periodically. If somebody were to take out almost enough to cause a problem, then wait, the magnet would do his work for him.”

“He’d have to know the precise rate it was happening at,” Zeller protested. “And how to vent it exactly enough. And every machine’s different.”

“So he was good at math and had a maintenance manual,” Will answered dismissively. “There’s probably one right around here somewhere. Why didn’t it vent outside?”

“Bird’s nest in the vent,” Katz answered, and snorted. “Scrambled eggs, anyone?”

“Wrong season for nesting,” Will noted, his attention on the machine. “There wouldn’t have been any eggs.”

He glanced up at the vent, then breathed deeply and headed further back into the room.

_I let out just enough coolant that it’ll fail when I want it to. But that’s no guarantee it’ll do what I want. I walk around the machine to find just the right place to work on it. Not a hole; it needs to stay stable for now. I know how these machines work; I know just where the stress will be greatest. I…thin the metal. Friction or acid. Now it’ll break exactly when and where I want it to._

He turned to the table at the end of the MRI tunnel. _He’ll be right there._ He glanced back at the point of origin. _The explosion might kill him, but probably not. I’m not too concerned, though; this is not about saving him._

“He wasn’t interested in saving Hobbs.” Will blinked and he was staring at the room again. He looked around to find Katz and Zeller had left and Hannibal was standing across the room.

He cocked his head at Will. “Why do you say that?”

Will laughed wryly and gestured at the torn-apart room. “Isn’t it obvious? This was never about getting him free. It was about killing him.”

“And yet it did free him,” Hannibal pointed out.

“Not as much challenge to killing him in captivity,” Will answered, distracted. He looked from the machine to the table to the door. “Kill him here or kill him once he gets out; someone just wanted him dead.”

Hannibal huffed in laughter. “I imagine there are quite a few people to whom that applies.”

Will laughed in turn. “Yeah, well, not that many of them would’ve been able to do all this.” He indicated the machine. “Not to mention there’s a big difference between wanting someone dead and going out of your way to kill them. Whoever our saboteur is, I think it’s safe to say he was very motivated.”

“You say ‘he’,” Hannibal noted. “You have a theory, then?”

“I’ve got a couple,” Will answered. “First I want to see the case files again.”


	11. Chapter 11

_“Most reapers are employed directly by the government as executioners. They are often wardens or corrections officers as well, and performing above-board services for the community. Those who operate ‘off-site’ could as easily return the fugitives to jail for their crimes and let them be executed there. But the chance of death appeals to the bloodthirsty masses. Shows like ‘Reaping the Heartland’ would not get nearly the ratings they do if they ended with a criminal in handcuffs._

_“By glamorizing the process, we leave ourselves open to the practice of criminals fleeing justice or skipping trial just to get chased down on TV. How many people have been injured or killed for the sake of pandering to an audience in a long-outdated practice?”_

— Hickey, R. (1991, September 17). Reality TV will kill more than our brain cells. _The Atlanta Constitution_ , p. A16.

 

 

Katz offered up her laptop, and Will sat in the nearest lounge and pulled the files she had on the victims. Hannibal sat just outside Will’s personal space and watched him work.

“What are you looking for?”

“Ruling people out.” He pulled up the first victims’ records. “Family and close associates who might be medical personnel, engineers, or metalworkers. Or,” he allowed, “a combination of people. Also someone with computer skills.”

“Ruling people out,” Hannibal repeated. “You don’t expect to find a saboteur among them.”

“Not really,” Will answered, though it hadn’t been a question. “But I want to make sure.”

“Mm. Well, I would offer to help, but,” he waved at the single computer.

Will shrugged. “Hopefully this won’t take long.” A thought occurred to him and he glanced up from the screen. “Can you talk to Hobbs’ doctor and take a look at the ordering system? You’re a doctor. Maybe you’ll see something we missed.”

“Of course.” Hannibal squeezed Will’s shoulder briefly. “I’ll let you know.”

His footsteps faded away as Will went back to the records.

 

“Will!”

Will glanced up at Jack Crawford’s impatient face, realizing it wasn’t the first time he’d been called. “Yeah.”

“Have you found anything?” he prompted.

“Nothing new,” Will answered, gathering his thoughts. “There’s no person or combination of people I can find who knew the victims and could pull this off. I even checked Hobbs for associates who might want him out of custody but not be too fond of him.” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Nothing.”

“Doctor Jezak could shed no additional light, either,” Hannibal said, stepping around Jack and handing Will a styrofoam cup. “Though her coffee is marginally better than the cafeteria’s.”

Will took the cup gratefully. “Thanks.” He warmed his hands around it before taking a sip. “Do we know when the MRI was ordered?”

“Some time last night,” Hannibal answered. “Our good doctor was at home, so it’s unlikely it was actually her.”

“Key card lock on her door?” Will asked.

Hannibal shook his head. “Standard deadbolt.”

“Who’s her alibi?” Jack asked.

“Her husband and son.” Hannibal’s lips quirked. “And apparently the husband is a lawyer. She made that very plain.”

Jack scowled. “So we’ll be polite when we ask about her whereabouts.”

“It wasn’t her, Jack,” Will interrupted. Jack gave him a skeptical look, and he elaborated. “It’s too easy to trace the order back to her, and she’s got a lot more to lose than to gain doing it. Her job and reputation for a start. And let’s face it; if his doctor wanted to kill him, she had a lot more direct opportunities.”

“She could’ve thought we wouldn’t find her out this way,” Jack countered.

“Little chance of that,” Hannibal answered dryly. “There was no medical reason for Hobbs to have been given an MRI; they already knew the extent of his wounds and he’d suffered no complications. Even if nothing had happened, the hospital’s oversight committee would have questioned it.”

Price walked up and gave Jack a shrug. “No prints on the equipment except authorized hospital personnel. Not even that much of them; I wish my cleaners did half as good a job. Oh, and all the sensors are working perfectly. Or they seem to be, anyway; they’re all telling us there’s a problem with the magnet,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

Jack sighed. “I want alibis for everyone with prints there, just in case. So we’re thinking what? Someone broke into the doctor’s office, ordered the MRI from her computer, came down here, got in without triggering the lock, sabotaged the machine enough for it to break when Hobbs was in it. For what? Did they want him dead or escaping?” He looked at Will.

“I don’t think he particularly cared.” Will stared at Jack’s tie, not really seeing it. “Hobbs is resourceful, quick thinking. He couldn’t be handcuffed in the MRI room. Chances were good he’d be able to take advantage of the opportunity. If he couldn’t, he didn’t deserve any more time; suffocation was good enough for him. But if he could…well, then he might be worthy of a chase.”

“You know who would have done this.” Hannibal’s voice brought him out of his reverie, and Will turned to look at him.

“I think our saboteur was the Chesapeake Reaper. I think he didn’t appreciate Hobbs being mistaken for him. He sees his work as different, more artistic, more…pure in its own way.”

“Because Hobbs wasn’t killing approved targets,?” Jack asked.

Will scoffed. “He doesn’t care about that. No, he’s _offended_ at Hobbs’ attempts to plagiarize his style. Offended that anybody would be taken in by it. He wants to kill Hobbs himself; show him what true artistry is. And now unless the manhunt on Hobbs is rescinded, he’ll get a chance to.”

“And you think he would have sabotaged this equipment to do it?” Hannibal asked.

“If he had to.” Will laughed shortly. “I wouldn’t bother looking too closely for evidence, Jack; I don’t think you’re likely to find anything. The Reaper’s _really_ careful.”

“We certainly haven’t found anything yet.” Beverly stripped off her gloves as she and Zeller joined their group. “Not a hair, a scrap of dirt, or even a suspiciously smooth bit of metal to show how he did it. I can test the shrapnel from the magnet’s components, but that’ll take better equipment than I’ve got in the field.”

“All right.” Jack clapped his hands together. “Pack everything up and let’s head out. I want you back at the lab seeing what you can make of everything. Here and from the prior scenes.” He turned to Price. “Dust Doctor Jezak’s door before you head out in case our man got sloppy.” He pointed at Zeller. “Get me the names of the hospital’s IT staff, and let the director know I’ll be subpoenaing every record of Hobbs’ I can get and all the activity on their servers. Then tell Computer Forensics.”

“Right.” Zeller nodded and headed off. Price grabbed a new pair of gloves from his bag and Katz headed back the way she’d come.

“I’ll work better here,” Will spoke up. “I want to walk the grounds. And I want to see Hobbs’ house and the cabin.”

“We’re finished processing the suite, stairwell, and exit,” Jack told him curtly. “You find anything else, you let us know. I’ll get you access to the houses. Find me Garret Jacob Hobbs.”


	12. Chapter 12

_“When engaging in pursuit of a fugitive, the reaper should take care to observe all requisite laws and safety precautions. Any reaper caught acting in a manner which is likely to result in injury of a party other than their target shall forfeit that target and be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”_

_—_ Federal Bureau of Investigation, Office of Reaper Coordination. (1989). _Handbook for prospective reaper candidates_ (FBI Publication No. 143). Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office.

 

 

Jack and the others headed out, and Will stepped back into the MRI suite, carefully taking in everything there.

“Where do you think Hobbs will go next?” Hannibal asked quietly, watching him.

Will bit his lip, thinking about it. “Not to any of the places we were looking at before; he’s not that stupid. He hasn’t got a license or any ID, so a plane’s out of the question. And he’s stuck in the US, too.”

“Thank heavens for small favors,” Hannibal suggested.

Will chuckled in agreement. “He’s not a career criminal; it’s not like he’ll have a false ID or passport stashed away. They’ll probably find that he’s stolen a car. He knows he should get as far away as possible, but he won’t want to leave Abigail. He’ll stay somewhere they’re covering the story.”

“Which unfortunately covers a lot of ground. Tattlecrime.com has been quite eager to supply details about it all,” Hannibal pointed out.

“Freddie Lounds.” Will curled his lip in disgust. “Tabloid journalism at its finest. Still, there are _some_ places without much internet access or TV, so we can rule out a little. It’s better than if he were camping in the wilderness somewhere. He’ll probably try to lose himself in a city this time, somewhere with a lot of people, where nobody really looks at their neighbors. Change his appearance enough, no-one will notice him.”

“Do you think the FBI can find him?” Hannibal asked. He scrutinized Will closely. “Do you think that you can?”

“Eventually.” Will sagged to lean against the wall, sighed, and rubbed his face. “I just hope we can do it before anyone else gets hurt.”

“I have faith in you.” Hannibal smiled at him. He glanced away for a moment, then back. “Tell me how you did see this evening turning out.”

Will looked around until his eyes caught on Hannibal’s hands, and he watched them for a moment. “I talked to Alana Bloom,” he blurted.

He could hear the smile in Hannibal’s voice. “She was the one who recommended me to Agent Crawford.”

“She told me. She also said she couldn’t really see us as each other’s type.”

Hannibal made a thoughtful noise. “I have never really had a type myself, other than demanding intelligence and some quality out of the ordinary.”

Will laughed. And kept laughing, all the tension going out of him. “Well,” he said, wiping his eyes, “I think Alana’s wrong. By that definition, I am definitely your type.” He risked a glance at Hannibal, who wore a faint smirk.

“And what about you, Will?” he asked. “What is your type?”

Will leaned his head back and rolled it from side to side. “I don’t know. Smart? Patient? It’s more a list of who’ll put up with me than who I’d want.”

“Well, I was among the youngest ever admitted to medical school in France,” Hannibal responded. “And I brew my own beer, some of it aged for years.” His lips twitched. “So it would seem I am your type as well.”

“Alana also said you’re good at respecting boundaries.”

Hannibal cocked his head. “A necessity, given my profession. You must know when to push and when it will do more harm than good.” He stepped closer and trailed his fingertips over Will’s wrist. “Am I pushing you, Will?”

Will’s twitched, but Hannibal’s touch was warm and comforting. After a moment, Will moved to press their palms together and lace their fingers. “Maybe a little,” he confessed. “But I’m a grown man; I’ll tell you if you go too far.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Hannibal promised.

 

 

Hannibal stepped back after that, watching as Will sank into the thoughts of Garret Jacob Hobbs.

_I’m alert; I’m not chained to anything in here. Maybe there’ll be a chance._ Will opened his eyes, seeing the room from the position of the machine’s platform. _The explosion’s sudden; I dive for the floor. My ears are ringing and the air’s thick with steam._

He paused and turned to Hannibal. “What’s hospital procedure when a quench happens? What would they do?”

“They would tell the patient to stay calm. Turn on the fan, if it isn’t automatic.” Hannibal pointed to the obscured vent. “Then open the door from their room to the outside, then the one from here to their room. Then they would try to get the patient out. Stay low to avoid asphyxiation.”

Will nodded and breathed slowly, sinking back into the moment.

_They want me to stay calm. I am calm. I know they’ll have to let me out. When the door opens, I’m ready for them._ He stepped to the door of the operators’ room. _They’re thinking of me as a patient, not as danger. I use that. I knock the first one back; he falls over into the other. I hurry through the next door. My leg is hurting, but I have to make it before the officer knows what’s going on._

Officer Forres had reported he’d heard the explosion and pulled his gun. The nurses had been trying to hurry him out of the suite when Hobbs had come up from the side, taken his weapon, and threatened them with it until he was out.

_I know I don’t have long; they’ll alert everyone. I close the door and run for the nearest exit…_

Will turned toward the glowing red sign. _It’s not too far. Just a short jog, and the turn in the hallway will hide me from view if that cop has another gun._

He pushed the door open on a short stairwell and stepped the half-story down to the exit. The print on it declared it to be an Emergency Exit Only, but the key was in the disconnect, and when Will pushed it open no alarm sounded.

“I thought Jack said they’d processed this?” Will asked, confused. “Wouldn’t they have taken the key?”

Hannibal huffed. “They probably did, if there was one here. I doubt this was left by either killer.” He stepped past Will and looked around for a moment, then nodded at the ground. Will let the door close gently and joined him, looking where he pointed.

Cigarette butts littered the pavement. “People leave it open so they can come and smoke in peace,” Will realized.

“A bad habit shared even by those in the health industry,” Hannibal noted. “More common than you’d care to think.”

“And Hobbs either knew, or more likely didn’t care about another alarm.” Will glanced down either side of the alley they were in. “He wouldn’t have gone far from here on foot, not with an injured leg and wearing a hospital gown. Why haven’t they found a vehicle yet?”

“Maybe they have,” Hannibal suggested. “Shall we return to the FBI offices?”

Will paced slowly down the alley, letting the last of the knowledge sink in. “I think I’ve seen all I can here for now.”

 

They found Will an office, and he set up the computer and pulled in a board to tack the pictures and printouts to while he thought. He sat down with the entire case file and began working his way through it again, making notes and adjusting pins and images.

He barely noticed when Hannibal set coffee by his elbow, but a few hours later a hand squeezed his shoulder and he blinked up at Hannibal, who smiled down.

“I’m terribly sorry, Will. It seems one of my patients needs urgent attending to. While he is not nearly so intriguing as you, I must keep up with my commitments.”

Will smiled and rubbed his eyes. “Don’t worry; I’ll be fine. You go take care of him. I’ll probably be back in Quantico in a day or two; I promise not to crack before then.”

Hannibal smiled back. “I would say we should reschedule our dinner for then, but perhaps we’d better wait until this entire thing is wrapped up. Otherwise, we’re likely to have many more reschedulings in our future.”

Despite a pang of regret, Will couldn’t deny it made sense. “Plus, Jack may want you acting as my therapist again.”

Hannibal stepped closer. “Until then.” He rested one hand on the side of Will’s face. His thumb stroked Will’s cheek, and Will looked up at him. He met Hannibal’s eyes for a moment, seeing the heat and affection in them, then turned back to his lips, watching them as he leaned in for a kiss.

It was sweet and warm and far too brief, and then Hannibal was stepping away. Will squeezed his hand in farewell and took a deep breath before turning back to his work.


	13. Chapter 13

_“When determining how a fugitive criminal may act in the future, it is important to remember that they do not act in a vacuum. Like Heisenberg, you affect them by pursuing them. They can read the same news you do, and they have a vested interest in doing so. It is also essential to remember that they are as affected as anybody else by their environment and as capable of taking advantage of the moment as any other human being. You must examine each one as their own person in order to come to the conclusions you will need to catch them._

_—_ Graham, W. (2008). Introduction. In E. McNamara (Ed.), _Interactions of forensics and psychology_ (p. 2).

 

 

Will spent the day internalizing everything he could about Garret Jacob Hobbs from the information they had. He arranged to visit the house and cabin the next day; he’d have liked to speak to Abigail Hobbs, too, but after hearing his profile, Jack had herded her back to DC and protective custody, so that would have to wait.

He tossed and turned that night, falling into a fitful sleep once or twice only to be woken again by the specter of Elise Nichols. He threw the covers off defiantly around five-thirty, made himself a pot of coffee from the cheap hotel packets, and flipped through printouts until he could plausibly claim having slept.

He phoned the lab back at Quantico from his makeshift office. Katz answered, and Will acknowledged her pleasantries before asking, “Found anything yet?”

He could hear the shrug in her voice. “The magnet’s housing was stressed by internal pressure. So, nothing we didn’t know. That thing’s like a giant jigsaw with half the pieces missing. If anyone did cause the quench intentionally, we’ll probably never find out. I even checked the birds’ nest from the vent — got a few threads, but nothing out of the ordinary and nothing to say the birds didn’t pick them up and build them in themselves.”

Will grimaced. “So, either it was accidental —“

Beverly snorted. “And the coincidence of a lifetime,” she interrupted.

Will made a noise of acknowledgement. “Or he was really good.”

“Or she,” Beverly pointed out. “Never underestimate the vindictive imagination of a woman.”

Will laughed reluctantly. “Point taken.”

He took one last look at the information on Hobbs, then found Gunnerson in the cafeteria.

“Only one of you today?” the officer asked with a grin.

“Just me,” Will agreed. “Think I could get a ride back up to the Hobbs’ house and cabin?”

“Sure thing.” He finished his coffee and stood, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll call the lieutenant on the way.”

“It doesn’t bother you being a glorified chauffeur?” Will asked as they headed for the car.

“You kidding?” Gunnerson laughed. “This’s the most excitement I’ve seen since I started on the force.” He looked sheepish. “Sounds bad, doesn’t it? Not like I’m glad it happened or anything, but this way at least I get to feel like a part of it; like I’m doing something.”

Will nodded. “Better than just hearing about it on the news.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “So which place first?”

 

They headed to the Hobbs’ house first. They didn’t quite have to push their way through reporters and gawkers, but the suburban street did have more than its fair share of foot traffic. The barrier tape was still up and a uniformed officer in a car was stationed in front of it; he greeted them and handed Gunnerson the keys. “Just bring ‘em back when you’re done. Processing’s finished,” he explained, “just trying to keep the vultures out.”

Will glanced over the crowd and didn’t bother hiding his distaste. “Most of them couldn’t even be bothered to cover the story for weeks.”

“That was before it looked like it might be a reaper gone bad.” The cop gave the crowd a dismissive snort. “Nothing like a bit of dirty laundry to bring ‘em scurrying out of the woodwork.”

Will followed Gunnerson to the house. The sergeant hung back as Will stepped inside. Louise Hobbs had died in the foyer, her blood still a dark stain on the linoleum. The kitchen was up a short flight of stairs, its windows looking out over the front yard. Will peered through tree branches toward the end of the driveway.

 _They know. There’s no other reason they’d be here. They want to take me away, separate us. I can’t allow that._ He stepped his way through the scene, feeling Garret Jacob Hobbs’ thoughts as his own.

“Anything new?” Gunnerson asked hopefully when Will rejoined him at the door.

“Sorry.” Will shook his head. “Just what I’d already figured on.”

“Cabin next?” He locked the door behind them and tossed the keys to the other officer with a smile.

“Yeah.”

 

But the cabin didn’t tell him anything new, either. He made a mental note to add a few things to Hobbs’ file, but though some of it confirmed his profile, none of it told him where Garret Jacob Hobbs was now.

He slept in the car on the way back to Minneapolis, dropping off to Gunnerson’s half-hearted mumbling along to the radio. He managed to grab a mug of weak coffee on his way to the conference room, where Corrigan met him with a once-over that seemed to find him wanting.

“Any news on Hobbs yet?” Will asked.

“Nothing on my end,” Corrigan answered. “A few possible sightings of him leaving the city, all of which naturally went in opposite directions, and none of which are confirmed.”

Will rubbed his eyes. “Do we know how he left the hospital yet?”

Corrigan eyed him dubiously. “Through the back door into the alley.”

“Yeah, no.” Will made a cutting gesture. “After that. He wasn’t even wearing proper clothes. He didn’t have on shoes. He has to have stolen a car, a van, something.”

“Or he hitched a lift,” Corrigan countered. “We checked with the hospital; there’s deliveries in and out all day around there. All he had to do was hop in the back somewhere.”

“That wouldn’t be his style,” Will protested. “He needs to be in control, needs to know where he’s going.”

“Look, all I can say is we haven’t found any reports of stolen vehicles within a mile of the hospital that day. However Hobbs did it, he didn’t steal a car.”

Will gave up; he’d find more out on his own than arguing here. He packed up his research and cornered Gunnerson at the coffee machine. “Can I get one last trip to the airport?”

“Last one?” he asked, setting his coffee down and heading out. “You sure?”

Will laughed. “Maybe.”


	14. Chapter 14

_“It is easy to lose site of the fact that the first and last victims of any criminal are almost always their family. They begin by lying to those closest to them, and end by leaving them open to the stigma of having allowed this to happen to their family. Others may suffer more, objectively speaking, but the second-guessing and what-ifs from both themselves and others may often drive such relatives to depression, social anxiety disorder, and even suicide. It is important that these individuals be treated as trauma victims, with a level of trauma commensurate to the crimes of their family member.”_

_—_ Bloom, A. (2006). “Longitudinal study of family trauma due to criminal notoriety”, _Journal of Family Psychology, 15(3)_ , p. 15.

 

 

He slept again on the plane — in coach; stopped by his house long enough to feed the dogs, check the mail, and say screw sleep; then made it to Quantico around six in the morning.

Beverly Katz looked up from her computer to greet him. “You’re here early.”

“You’re here earlier,” he pointed out. “Eager to catch the ‘Reaper Ripper’?” he mocked, hating the name. Sometimes the press had no imagination.

“Insomniac,” she shot back. “What’s your excuse?”

“Do I need one?”

“Depends; did you bring coffee?”

Will hoisted his cup. “Only my own.”

“Bad form,” she told him, but her lips were quirking. “So were you looking for anything particular?”

“Only if there’s anything new?” he asked hopefully.

“Not so far.” She hooked a thumb back over her shoulder. “Come on; Jack’s got you office space. And I’ll show you how to make me coffee.”

She showed him the office and the coffee machine, and then left him to himself. He took a moment just to breathe after her somewhat overwhelming energy, then began setting up his board again, reacquainting himself with the evidence as he did.

Next he checked in with Minneapolis, but they’d heard nothing concrete, and nothing had changed since yesterday. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, though; he checked for himself, but as Corrigan had said, no vehicles had been reported stolen anywhere in the area, not even a moped.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the pictures on the board. There was a section for each of Hobbs’ victims, Elise Nichols at the center, pinned opposite Cassie Boyle. He stared at the two of them, taking in the contrasts; the hunter’s violently conflicted reverence and disgust and the Reaper’s clear and cold disdain. Murder for shock value set against killing with grace and brutal artistry.

 _Did you know you were helping us catch him when you showed us your real work?_ Will wondered for a moment. Then he sat up. _Of course you did; that’s why you did it. You weren’t just showing us you were affronted, you were showing_ ** _me_** _how to catch him. You gift-wrapped him for me by showing me yourself._

He turned to the computer and scrambled for the police file. _You went to all the trouble of getting him out, you weren’t about to leave the rest to chance._ He went back over the hospital’s reports, sinking in to what he knew of the Chesapeake Reaper’s mind.

_No one will report seeing anything unusual. I’m very good at hiding…no, at blending in. They see me, they just don’t know that they do. I choose the MRI because I can control the timing and placement. I set it up just right. I leave no evidence._

_I head upstairs; I pick the lock on the doctor’s door. I’m good with computers; I find the order system and log the request._ It had been around one a.m.

 _I know when he’ll get out, if the quench doesn’t kill him. And I know where he’ll go. I wait for him in the alley. I don’t want to kill him; I could just have shot him in his bed. He has to learn his mistake before he dies. That’s why I need him out of here. And I need to follow him._ Will closed his eyes and focused on the elusive feel he had for the Reaper. _I don’t want him recaptured before I can get to him, but he won’t get far on foot and injured. He’ll steal a vehicle, and they’ll track him by it. Unless…what he steals is never reported as stolen._

That was it; Will knew he was right. He switched to a business directory and looked up car rental places in Minneapolis, then started making calls.

 

When he surfaced, it was late morning; no-one was in Jack’s office, so he headed to the lab. Katz was still there, along with Zeller and Price now. They were surrounded by bags of equipment and seemed to be finishing packing them up.

“You’re headed out?” he asked as Price passed by.

“Some of us have concrete evidence to look at,” Zeller answered dryly.

Price snorted. “And some of us just need to show up in case there is some. Montana; we’re on forensics stand-by.”

“Hobbs sent out a manifesto,” Katz explained as she strapped something into a bag. “We were able to backtrace it to an ISP in the area.”

“Checked the tip line,” Zeller continued, “and there’ve been a couple reports from around Billings. So, guess we won’t need you on this any more.”

“More reports there than from anywhere else?” Will asked.

“More than anywhere else in Montana,” Price answered with a shrug.

“Jack’s already out there,” Katz noted. “Anything we can tell him from you?”

Will huffed in laughter. “I think he’s looking in the wrong place.”

 

The forensics team had a plane to catch, so Will let them go and called Agent Crawford directly. He was clearly distracted, and Will pictured him in the same sort of organized chaos they’d had in Minneapolis.

“Talk to me, Will,” he barked.

“I don’t think Hobbs is out there, Jack,” he replied equally bluntly.

“You have evidence?”

“I think I found his vehicle.” Will stuck the phone under his chin and picked up the paper with his notes. “There was a white Honda checked out from a rental place near the Minneapolis airport and never returned. It ended up in an impound lot, towed from a parking lot in Woodbury. There was a car reported stolen there the afternoon of Hobbs’ escape, but I haven’t been able to trace it yet.”

“So?” Jack asked, waiting.

Will did his best not to sigh. “Woodbury’s to the east, Jack.”

“Look, Will.” There was a burst of noise on his end, and Crawford covered the phone to yell something. A door slammed and the line got quieter. “That just means he started out going one way and turned around. If it even is him, it means he’s smart enough to try and throw us off the scent.”

“I don’t think —“

“Will,” Jack interrupted. “I appreciate your help, but this is our best lead.”

“What makes you so sure he’s in Montana?” Will asked in return. “Katz said something about a…a manifesto?”

“Sent to Tattlecrime.com,” Jack answered in a snarl. “And published before Freddie Lounds even bothered to call us.”

“How can you be sure it’s him?”

“I had our folks look over it, Will. They may not be you, but they know what they’re doing. They assure me it is.” He sighed. “Look, I’ll put in a call to the cops in Woodbury, get you access to their records. Keep looking into it; maybe you can narrow down where he went. But I’m not calling everyone off of a solid lead because someone decided not to tell the rental company their car got stolen.”

Will bit back the answer he wanted to give. He knew from Jack’s point of view that’s what it looked like, and he wouldn’t be changing his mind. He also knew when to stop arguing and take what help he could get. “Thanks, Jack. And I’d like to pay a visit to Abigail Hobbs, maybe get a better handle on her father.”

“Doctor Bloom’s her therapist of record; if she signs off on it, I’ve got no problems. Anything else?” Will demurred and said goodbye, then picked up his phone again and called Alana.

She was in her office and came by to see him. She gave him a warm smile, but was reluctant to agree. “Abigail needs time away from all this. She’s blaming herself; I’m not sure helping profile her father is the best thing for her right now.”

“Maybe if she finds out more about why, it could help,” Will pointed out.

Alana thought about it, and Will gave her the time. “If she starts getting upset, I’ll ask you to stop,” she warned.

Will smiled. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled back. “Come on; the safe house isn’t far.”

 

“Safe house” was a bit of a misnomer; Abigail was being kept at a motel on the marine base, guarded full-time by several agents. She greeted them calmly, with annoyance just below the surface.

“Abigail, this is Will Graham,” Alana introduced them. “He’s working with the FBI to try and find your father.”

Abigail’s lips thinned and she looked at him. “I’ve already told the other agents; Dad didn’t have any other houses or friends that I know of.”

Will did his best to smile politely. “I’m not an agent. I try to find people by figuring out how they think. You know your father better than anyone here; I just want to talk to you about him.”

She eyed him for a moment, glanced over at Alana, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

They sat on the suite’s couch, Alana across the room. “Thank you,” Will started. “I know you’ve been through a lot lately.”

“Not as much as those girls,” Abigail answered shortly. “Right now I just want them to find him so I can get out of here. Go back to normal.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

“That’s what everybody else wants, too,” he assured her. “Tell me about your dad. He was a hunter, wasn’t he?”

“He’s the one who taught me to hunt,” she answered. “Deer mostly. Taught me to shoot, to track. He used to talk about them like they were people, say we were honoring them the more of them we used. I thought he’d be proud of me.” She looked away unhappily. “His dad was a reaper. And he never said anything bad about them. Then he killed those girls because of me.”

“What your dad did is not your fault,” Will told her firmly. “You’re not responsible for his actions. Anything you can do to help us find him is good, though.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know if I know anything. What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about the way he hunts.”

 

They talked for a while; Abigail was a smart girl, and had more insight than she realized into her father’s techniques — blending in was important, moving casually, watching populations while tracking individuals. Will set it in the back of his mind to percolate with the rest of his knowledge of Hobbs.

When he thanked her and got up to go, she looked up at him, her eyes sad but her face calm. “The parts of those girls he took — he was feeding them to us, wasn’t he?”

“Maybe,” Will answered. Then, considering what she’d told him, “Probably.”

Abigail nodded. “Thank you. For being honest.” She looked like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be sick or not.

Will smiled a little. “You’re a smart, brave girl, Abigail. You’ll make it through this.”

She offered a wan smile in return.


	15. Chapter 15

_“Imagination means seeing a connection between two things that are different but which have something in common which you had not noticed before.”_

_—_ Crick, F. (1988). “Neural networks and REM sleep”, _Bioscience Reports, 8(6)_ , p. 534.

 

 

Will said goodbye to Alana and headed back to his office, contemplating his next move. He dialed Hannibal’s number, but it went to voicemail, and he hung up without leaving a message. He brought up a browser on the computer and headed to Tattlecrime.com; a few minutes later he was looking at the “manifesto” Jack had mentioned. It was a confusing jumble of thoughts more than a coherent declaration.

 

> I’m writing this because someone ought to know the truth. The government doesn’t want anyone to. They’d be happy if they’d killed me in that hospital. They don’t want anybody talking about it, because they’re afraid to admit how corrupt and wrong the system is.
> 
> We pay people to kill other people - to hunt them down like animals. I hunt deer, and I give them more honor than any of these so-called “reapers” ever give anyone. I gave those girls that same honor, which is more than they deserved, doing what they did. They shamed their families and themselves, and I saved them from that.
> 
> The government has my Abigail now. They think they’re protecting her from me, like I’d ever hurt her! I don’t want anybody’s daughter being a part of the death industry. Nobody deserves to see that.
> 
> If the government thinks they can gun me down like they did that boy at my cabin, they’ve got another thing coming. Don’t bother, because you’ll never find me. Not unless I find you first.

Will frowned at the screen. It certainly sounded like something Hobbs could have written. _If he’d bothered to write anything._ That was the sticking point — Hobbs didn’t need to tell anyone what he was doing. The whisper sounded in Will’s ear as if Hobbs were there:

_My kills were personal; I don’t care about anyone else. You think what you like._

He reread the note line by line. “Someone who knows what’s been going on,” he muttered to himself. Not that that narrowed it down much, thanks to the media circus. But there were hints around the edges, something more an intuition than a concrete clue. “Whoever this is, you know about the investigation, don’t you?” That helped a little more — cops, FBI, various personnel, spouses and friends they might have told things to.

“Still too many people.” Will rubbed his face and sighed. “You know how Hobbs thinks, well enough to do this. _Why_ are you doing this?”

He gazed blankly at the papers on his desk for a moment, then swore. _You’re still playing us, playing him. You hated him counterfeiting you, so you’re doing the same to him. And you know just the sort of thing to make Jack go running, giving you time to get to Hobbs yourself._

Will set his jaw. Time to profile a different killer.

 

He headed down to the Reaper Coordination offices for hardcopy files and came back with boxes of them. He pulled the main photo from each file and tacked them up chronologically, studying them as he went.

There was the one he’d noted before, like a Renaissance painting. And another. _You like art._ This one, sitting in a pew with his tongue a bookmark in his bible. _You don’t like — or just don’t care about — religion._ He took a step back, eyeing them as a group. _You love theater, and you enjoy killing. You see it as art. You like getting credit; you’ll probably do something else artistic. Something you can be known for publicly._ He flicked his gaze over the number of them, the variety. _There’s never been a hint of who you are, and you’ve killed people no-one else could even find. You’re smart._

He pulled out a pad of sticky notes and started tagging each picture with the body parts removed: skin. Heart. Liver. Thigh. Lungs. They stacked up, only the Tucson body left intact. _You knew he was sick._ Will checked the records; Edward Bastus’ cancer was in the court reports where his attorney called for leniency.

 _These people aren’t picked at random; you learn about them first. Or you do your research._ He pulled the court records from ten files at random, looking for similarities. A few hours later, he still hadn’t found any. They’d committed a variety of crimes; some had escaped before trial, some after, some had never been caught. Some had family, some didn’t. _No constants at all, other than the fact that from what I can tell, they were all jerks._

Will stopped. _That’s it?_ He wasn’t sure why, but it seemed right. _You don’t care about their demographics or crimes; you don’t like…what, rudeness? Disrespect toward others?_ “Certainly a unique victim profile,” he murmured, trying not to laugh. Hell, there were times that sounded pretty tempting. He glanced through the other files more quickly, knowing what he was looking for, and they all seemed to fit the new profile.

_They’re pigs. You’re doing everyone a favor taking care of them. You know your theatrics are a deterrent; you like that, too. It’s not just about aesthetics, it’s about the psychological effect of your art. You’ve enjoyed that from the start._

A hint of something tickling at the back of his mind, Will picked up the phone and called Zawalski; his secretary put it through after a few seconds.

“Mister Graham. How can I help you? Is this about Hobbs?” Zawalski sounded tired.

“Not really,” he answered. “You mentioned there were…’completions’ in Europe that matched the Chesapeake Reaper’s MO. When were they? Um…not exactly if you don’t know. Just, before or during his time in America?”

“Two in the early nineties, in France; one just a few years ago, in Italy,” Zawalski answered immediately. “Why; you think you have something?”

“I don’t know; maybe. Do you have files on those, too? They weren’t with the others.”

“Nothing official since they’re unconfirmed. I’ve got copies of the documentation and pictures, though. I’ll get them to you if you think it’ll help.”

“It might.”

“Okay, give me some time to get them together.”

“Thanks.” Will hung up, turned to the whiteboard, and picked up the marker. He chewed on his lip for a moment, then started writing down bullet points as he went over what he knew.

_You put your gender on your application. It’s unlikely you lied. You’ve been doing this for a while, but you’re still strong. You started here, at least in the States, and you keep coming back. You knew or figured out the MRI. You tracked all these people. You knew what we needed to know to catch Hobbs. These installations aren’t accidental; you know the paintings you’re recreating. And you create your own, too._

He examined Cassie Boyle’s photos, then added a few more items. _You know how to get out the organs you want; you don’t hesitate or make mistakes. You can travel at a moment’s notice. You must be rich after all of this, but you don’t want anyone to know how you make your money. You could have inherited money, but you’d be bored doing nothing. You don’t have a lot of family or friends you’d have to explain absences to. Or a boss._

A knock on the door frame made him turn; Zawalski was there, holding up a file. He looked around the room, taking in the whiteboard and pinned up pictures. “You’re profiling the Chesapeake Reaper?” he asked, frowning faintly.

“I think it may help us find Hobbs,” Will answered, then as he realized how that might sound, “I know he’s not Hobbs, but I think — no, I _know_ — he’s misdirecting us. He wants to take care of Hobbs himself, and he doesn’t want police or the FBI getting in the way.”

Zawalski looked Will over. “You have evidence?” He looked interested.

Will took a deep breath and smiled. “Someone rented a car from the Minneapolis airport early in the morning before Hobbs escaped. It was supposed to be returned that afternoon; it was towed from a shopping center in an eastern suburb a few days later when it was noticed it’d been abandoned. A car was stolen from that same place the afternoon Hobbs went missing.”

“And you think Hobbs stole the rental car, then switched vehicles, and the person who rented the car never reported it? Why?”

“I think the person that rented it was the Chesapeake Reaper.” Will waved at the peg board. “He’s meticulous, organized. If we take for granted that he’s the one who caused the MRI explosion —“

“Even though we’ll never prove it,” Zawalski broke in with a rueful smile.

Will nodded in acquiescence. “He wasn’t going to just let Hobbs head out wherever he wanted. And having him recaptured would sort of defeat the purpose, don’t you think?”

Zawalski tapped his fingers against the file he carried. “So, he left a car. Easily stolen — heck, maybe he left the keys in it or something, an irresistible target — and then he tracked it somehow. You can get the hardware just about anywhere.”

“Right.” Will breathed a sigh of relief at being believed. “So, if we can track the Reaper, we can find where he’s tracked Hobbs to.”

“Honestly, I’m tempted to just let him at Hobbs,” Zawalski answered with a shrug.

Will snorted. “You and me both. But I’m not willing to grant the guy superhuman status just yet, and in case anything goes wrong, I’d rather have some idea what Hobbs is up to.”

“Well, if this’ll help…” Zawalski opened the file and passed Will the first set of papers.

Will paged through it. “Michel Albiol, forty-three. Convicted of the stabbing death of his girlfriend. Was he rude?”

Zawalski eyed him oddly. “Was he what?”

“Rude. Uh…disrespectful. Did he have a history of poor behavior. Apart from the murder,” he added wryly.

“We don’t have a history on him, but the captain I got the info from said he was an obnoxious shit, if that counts.”

Will laughed. “Yeah, I’ll take it.” He found the picture of the body and let himself sink into the artist’s mind. After a moment, he knew. “This was him.” He held out his hand for the other files, and flipped through them when Zawalski obliged. “Yeah; they all are.”

“Does that help you find him?” Zawalski asked. He took the files back and tapped them into order.

“Maybe.” Will smiled. He turned and wrote one last thing on the whiteboard, then stepped back to look at his list.

 

**\- Male**

**\- 35 - 50**

**\- Lives in Chesapeake Bay area**

**\- Intelligent**

**\- Well-educated: psychology? sociology?**

**\- Art lover**

**\- Theatrical**

**\- Anatomical or surgical knowledge**

**\- Well-paying job (inheritance?)**

**\- Self-employed**

**\- Meticulous**

**\- European, possibly French**

 

He stared at it a moment before his head spun, dizzy with…realization? Suspicion? Nothing he could prove, but… _Where are you from, Doctor Hannibal Lecter?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote on this chapter (15, if you're reading as a whole) is actual, as cited.


	16. Chapter 16

_“When I was tracking a target, the best help I got was from the local police. Not that they’ll ever admit it, but those boys gossip just as bad as anyone. They got all the good toys, and they just love to tell everybody about it. Take them out, get them a drink, and they’re happy to tell you all about this guy they saw down the street might just be walking dead.”_

_—_ Raeburn, R. (1979). _Killing for a living_ , p. 36.

 

 

He asked a favor of Zawalski, who agreed and headed off, then called Hannibal again, unsurprised when it went to voicemail. “Uh, hi. This is Will. Will Graham.” He winced at his own awkwardness at leaving messages. “I was hoping you might be able to help me with something. So, um, if you get a chance…I’m at 571-555-9455. Thanks.”

After he hung up, he brought up a map of Minnesota and centered it on Woodbury. He noted the major roads out of it and brought up the government site to find the locations of traffic cameras. This was going to be a long day.

 

The first two points weren’t hard to find; Hobbs had stayed on 94 through Eau Claire to just outside Madison. He’d been going the speed limit, avoiding notice, secure in the fact they wouldn’t know what he was driving. The dark red SUV he’d stolen blended in with all the other traffic to the point that even knowing what to watch for and roughly when, Will nearly missed it. If not for the Minnesota plates, he probably would have.

After that, the roads got denser, the exchanges closer together, and Will was left combing through the camera feeds in Wisconsin while Illinois’ DOT balked at giving theirs up. It took a call from Jack Crawford to get the recordings, and Will would’ve loved to be a fly on _that_ wall. He found Hobbs again in Rockford, then with a sinking sense of dread in Joliet. By the time he’d checked half the roads in and out of Chicago and come up with nothing more than a grainy picture that _might_ be him around Gary, Will’s head was pounding.

His phone rang, and he checked it, grateful for the interruption. _Hannibal._ He paused a moment longer to take a deep breath and reassure himself that his suspicions were unlikely to show through his general social ineptness, then answered it.

“Will Graham.”

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice was warm but slightly distracted. “It was good to hear from you. I’m sorry I couldn’t take  your call earlier.”

“No problem,” Will assured him. “I figured you were probably busy.”

“Mm, yes. This patient, I’m afraid, is taking a good bit of time. But I should hate to neglect you in the process.”

Will couldn’t help a cynical smile at the “patient” he had a strong intuition was Garret Jacob Hobbs. “I understand,” he said. “You can’t just drop work, after all.”

“Thank you. However, you said I might help you with something?”

Will paused, momentarily lost until he remembered his message earlier. “Oh, um.” He laughed a little nervously. “If you’re still busy, it’ll wait. We’ll have dinner soon, right?”

“I sincerely hope so.” Hannibal’s voice turned more intimate. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too.” Will was aware he probably should have been hesitating more, but societal norms had never exactly been his thing, and despite the added thread of nervousness his new suspicion gave him, the truth was he found Hannibal even more interesting. “Well, I’ll…let you go, I guess.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Until later, then.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.”

Will checked the clock on top before he put his phone away, then sighed. _I really should get some sleep. And the dogs are probably going crazy in the house._ He locked the computer carefully, erased his summary from the whiteboard, and checked that there was nothing else important before locking the door and heading out.

He was back the next morning, a bit more rested and with a few avenues of attack before him. His first was to call Jack Crawford and fill him in on his progress.

“You sure it’s him?” 

“Reasonably sure,” Will answered. “Right kind and color of vehicle, right time, plates seem to be Minnesota. I can’t really tell more than that from the videos.”

“Shame we don’t have _CSI_ equipment,” Crawford answered. “Meanwhile, pray he runs a red light somewhere with a camera.”

“Mm, not likely. He’s being careful. Then again, if he wasn’t keeping to the speed limit, I’d be even more lost.”

“I’ll send you a couple trainees to help go over footage,” he suggested. “Should speed things up.”

“Not making much progress?” Will answered wryly.

“We’ve got a motel room with smudged fingerprints that might or might not be him, a couple witnesses who picked him out of a photo lineup, and a lot of ground to cover. I’m beginning to hope that you’re right.”

Will snorted. “Well, I’ll let you know if I find anything. And thanks, Jack. The trainees will help.”

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you find anything.”

Will agreed and hung up. He was formulating his next move when Zawalski walked in carrying a sheet of paper. Will looked at him hopefully.

“Did you find it?”

Zawalski slid the paper across the desk to Will. “It’s a cell phone,” he confirmed. “Recent activity has it just west of Cleveland. Anything else, we’d better get a warrant if you want it to hold up.” He eyed Will. “Do I need to get a warrant?”

“No,” Will answered. He picked up the paper. “Thanks.”

Zawalski nodded and headed out. He turned at the door and tapped the frame a couple times. “In case you were wondering, Hannibal Lecter earned his original medical degree at Paris Descartes.”

He left, and Will smiled ruefully at himself; of course Zawalski would’ve wanted to know whose phone he was tracing, and he’d seen Will’s list, too. But if he hadn’t said anything directly, Will just had to trust he’d keep quiet.

Meanwhile, west of Cleveland meant east of Chicago. Will checked highway 90. He’d nearly forgotten Jack’s promise of help until two fresh-faced trainees showed up. He blinked at them, rubbed his eyes, then waved them at the couch, where they set up with their laptops. “I’ve got the east, but Chicago’s a big place. Take the city between you, one north and one south; here’s the vehicle we’re looking for.” He passed them the info page on the SUV.

Just because his money was on Hannibal, didn’t mean he wasn’t still going to hedge his bets.

He found Hobbs again in South Bend, then around Toledo. Giving in, he pulled Zawalski’s paper from his pocket, checked the specifics of Hannibal’s location, and did some quick calculations on what time Hobbs would have arrived in that area. Then he looked up the camera feeds.

 

At about three, Will sent the trainees off. They hadn’t found anything, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at wasting their time when he was pretty sure they wouldn’t. He’d found Hobbs’ vehicle headed into Sandusky; Hannibal was already there.

_Large transient population, tons of motels. Hobbs has already lost the vehicle; now he’ll try to lose himself. Lay low for a bit, heal up, then steal another. Or maybe a boat._ But somehow Hannibal was tracking him; it couldn’t be coincidence he was in the right place. Now all there was left to do was wait.


	17. Chapter 17

_“The meaning of art cannot entirely be divorced from the meaning of the artist. As much as each individual reads themselves into a painting or an installation, the knowledge of the artist invariably affects this process. It may be as simple as realizing the irony inherent in a piece, or as complex as seeing how the family structure of the sculptor informs their interpretation of a scene. That said, it is undeniable that a work of art may have very different effects on different people, in accordance with their own neurological and historical differences.”_

_—_ Deya, J. (2006). “The observed and the observer: An aesthetic interaction”, _Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 64(1)_ , p. 53.

 

 

Will went home around dinner time; he fed the dogs and let them out for a while, then made himself a sandwich and ate it at the counter before heading back to Quantico. Jack Crawford and his team were still off in the woods somewhere, but Will had no doubt there would be news from Sandusky soon. He headed to the Reaper Coordination offices, where the small evening crew was chatting and doing paperwork in the main bullpen. They were who he’d come to see, but across the room he saw Zawalski sitting in his office looking at his computer.

Will walked past the agents and hovered in the doorway until Zawalski looked up. “I thought you’d have gone home by now,” Will told him.

“Come on in.” Zawalski shrugged. “I’m probably still here for the same reason you are. Waiting for news. Think we’ll hear from him soon?”

“Probably,” Will acknowledged a little uncomfortably. He hadn’t really meant to out Hannibal, even unintentionally. “I tracked Hobbs; he made it to Sandusky four days ago.”

“And our friend was there yesterday,” Zawalski continued. “Very soon, then. Do we know how he found him?”

“A tracking device, maybe?” Will suggested. “Or he’s somehow convinced him to keep in touch.”

“No calls to that number in the last two days except for yours,” Zawalski answered. “Did you think I wouldn’t check?”

Will shifted and winced. “I hoped you wouldn’t.”

Zawalski gave him a look that was equal parts thoughtful and outraged. “If what you think is true — and I have little doubt at this point that it is — I have every reason to pry and every right to know.” He took a breath and calmed down, but leaned forward. “Don’t think I’m not very aware of what would happen if even a suspicion of this news got out. He’s been a huge asset to our bureau and our society, and I have no intention of hobbling him like that.”

Will relaxed a little. “Thank you for that.”

Zawalski huffed. “I will have to talk to him when all this is over.” He glanced at the clock. “But for now, all we can do is wait.” He pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to a closed door in his bookshelf, where he pulled out a bottle and two glasses. “You strike me as the whiskey type. Cragganmore?”

Will smiled. “That’d be great.”

He poured two glasses and set the carafe on his desk. Then he glanced at the clock and pulled a pack of cards out of his desk drawer. “I generally use these for solitaire. You want War or Go Fish?”

 

The games weren’t exactly the most riveting, but Zawalski told some interesting stories that didn’t require a lot of conversational effort on Will’s part, so the time passed more quickly than it might have. After a few hours, the agents outside were replaced by new ones, and two of the outgoing ones showed up at Zawalski’s door.

“Waiting for something big, boss?” one of them asked curiously.

“You to learn better taste in ties, Jerry,” Zawalski retorted. “We may be here a while.” Jerry’s tie was a watercolor-looking splash of several bright colors.

“Don’t laugh,” the other agent drawled. “His kid probably gave it to him.”

“Nah, his kid’s too smart for that,” Zawalski asked dryly. “Where’s he going next year?”

“Spelman!” Jerry announced proudly. “And I happen to think my ties are much more interesting than the boring old things the rest of y’all wear.”

“That’s why they put you on night shift,” the woman spoke up again, “so you wouldn’t blind everybody with those things.”

Jerry gave them both a look of faux-wounded dignity.

Zawalski sighed. “Can I help you, agents?”

They glanced at each other, and the woman spoke up again. “Want some help waiting?”

Zawalski folded his arms on his desk and gave them a look. “Was I not doing a good enough job on my own?”

“Come on, boss,” Jerry protested. “If you’re still here, something big’s going on. Couldn’t hurt to have extra eyes on it, could it?”

Zawalski glanced at Will, who shrugged. It wasn’t like waiting for the confirmation call needed more people, but it wasn’t like they’d find out about Hannibal by waiting, either.

“Might as well come in,” Zawalski said with a sigh. “SSA Jerome Gold, SSA Natalie Jeon,” he introduced them, “Will Graham.”

Will nodded at them.

“I took your class a couple years ago as a refresher,” Agent Gold told him, holding out a hand. Will shook it briefly. “Learned a lot.”

Will smiled awkwardly. “Well, that’s what it’s there for.”

“All right, come on.” Zawalski shuffled the cards. “Everybody know Gin Rummy?”

Will and Agent Jeon didn’t, so the others took a while to teach them before they settled down around Zawalski’s desk and started playing. Will and Zawalski won the first game, Jeon and Gold the second. They were a few hands into the third and Will was fighting a yawn when one of the agents on duty knocked at the doorframe.

She got their attention instantly, and looked over their game a bit bemused for a second before gathering herself and talking to Zawalski. “Sir, confirmation form just filed from the Chesapeake Reaper. I thought you’d want to know — the target’s listed as Garret Jacob Hobbs.”

Will drew a silent breath of relief. If he said it was done, it was done, and Hobbs wouldn’t be killing any more innocents. Agent Gold, less restrained, whooped. “Nice going, Chesapeake!” He held up his hand and Jeon met it for a high-five.

Zawalski gave them both a look. “Let me guess; office betting pool?”

Jeon gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Of course not, sir; we would never be so unprofessional as to do something like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Zawalski turned to his computer and woke it up. “What’s the completion number, Agent Bera?”

“Three five six oh twenty-two.”

Zawalski entered it in and pulled up the form. He read over it for a minute. “Christ, he meant business. ‘Identifiable wounds and amputations’,” he read. “‘Facial skin, tongue, brain, heart and coronary arteries, and wounds required to obtain them’.”

The agents’ glee died down a bit, and Gold whistled. “Damn. He really didn’t like that asshole, did he?”

Will laughed briefly. “More than that.” He ticked through the wounds on his fingers. “He was faceless, a nobody. And the Reaper found him tasteless, brainless, and heartless.”

“Can’t say I disagree,” Jeon answered, though she looked a little green.

“All right, everybody. Thank you,” Zawalski told Agent Bera. “That’s all we were waiting for,” he said to the other two. “Go on, get home.”

Gold stacked the cards and handed them back to Zawalski. “See you tomorrow, boss.”

“Only if your ties don’t blind you first,” Zawalski answered with a smile.

They waved at Will and followed Agent Bera out the door, leaving Will alone with Zawalski. “Someone should tell Agent Crawford he can stop searching,” Will said.

“Yeah.” Zawalski sighed. “I’ll take care of it. Two big fumbles on this one; his career’ll take a hit.”

Suddenly Will recalled Hannibal’s carefully constructed and controlled expression when Jack had agreed they were throwing the Reaper under the bus, because _“I’m not going to take the time to worry about getting some reaper’s panties in a bunch”_. “That…may have been intentional,” he allowed.

Zawalski thought about it for a moment and nodded. “Probably.” He turned the screen toward Will to show him the picture submitted with the Reaper’s form. Hobbs — he assumed, given the missing face — was naked and bloody, splayed across the back seat of a square, miniature car.

“He left him in a kiddie ride.” Will snorted. “He shouldn’t have been trying to play with the big boys, maybe.”

“Maybe.” Zawalski grimaced. “Or because the name of the ride is Police Cars.”


	18. Chapter 18

_“Sadkovitz (2001) postulates that this is an interest in spectacle on par with the Roman Colosseum, in which similarly the gladiators were both celebrities and social outcasts. It is a worthwhile parallel to make, but it should also be noted that unlike the gladiators, reapers enjoy the full legal rights of citizens in every country in which they have been documented, and thus the public’s hunger for spectacle is necessarily thwarted by an individual’s right to privacy.”_

_—_ Castelna, I. (2003). _Case studies in privacy law_ , p. 43.

 

 

The media circus that followed thankfully bypassed Will for the most part. He was home before the first wave of reporters could engulf Quantico, and he stayed away from that side of the complex as much as he could when he went in for class.

His students showed more curiosity than was strictly professional as he lectured on the differences between the Reaper’s MO and Hobbs’, but at least they had the good sense to listen and leave him alone. He went into the particulars and listed the similarities and differences between them.

“Hobbs feared for his daughter, and hated reapers, but had a certain grief and reverence for the girls like her that he considered it too late to save,” he wrapped up, showing a slide of Elise Nichols’ body. “This was always about her, and about them.

“In contrast, the Chesapeake Reaper,” he looked up and faltered for a moment; Hannibal stood in the entryway. Will watched his face for a moment, avoiding his eyes, then took a deep breath and continued. “The Reaper sees his targets as pigs.” He changed the slide to Cassie Boyle’s corpse. “There is no reverence, no grief or remorse. He kills them and humiliates them at once. They’re worthless, so he turns them into art. The art is the point, not the people. While Hobbs tried to disguise his works as the Reaper’s, his true feelings leaked through in his displays, eventually leading to his capture.”

He glanced over the room and turned back to his papers. “Try to think about what Hobbs might have done differently, and what other copycats have done to give themselves away. Use the design to find their meaning. Class dismissed.”

Will sorted his papers into his briefcase, waiting as they filed out. He had an odd sense of déjà vu, remembering when Jack Crawford had ambushed him after class before. Hannibal was more polite about it, though, waiting until they were alone and not being as presumptuous about his personal space.

_Well, he does really hate rude people,_ Will thought to himself, and couldn’t stop a chuckle. He shut his briefcase with a click and smiled at Hannibal. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Hannibal leaned against Will’s desk. “I thought I’d come to see you in your element.”

“In my native habitat, you mean?” Will asked with a snort.

“If you like,” Hannibal answered equably. “I also had to drop off some forms regarding my consultation on the Hobbs case with Agent Crawford,” he confessed, “so I suppose you could say I was in the neighborhood.”

“Is Jack back at Quantico, then?” Will asked, shrugging on his coat.

“Since this morning, apparently,” Hannibal fell into step with him as they left the building. “He hasn’t been after you for paperwork as well?”

“I’m…holding off on mine,” Will confessed. “He wants me to keep consulting; I haven’t decided yet.”

“You might be better to wait until all this,” Hannibal indicated the campus, “has died down a bit.”

Will nodded his agreement. They got to the parking lot, and Hannibal put a gentle hand on Will’s arm. Will looked up at him in question.

“I was wondering if you might like to have that dinner tonight?” he asked, smiling.

Will hesitated, then met his eyes. There was affection there, and passion, and that darkness Will had seen before. He could also read a hunger and loneliness that made him catch his breath. “I think I’d enjoy that.”

“I hope so.” Hannibal chuckled and gave Will a little bow that made him laugh. “My car is this way.”

 

His car was a large, very well cared for Bentley, and Will felt shabby in comparison even as he chided himself for it. They talked for a little while about inconsequentials before falling quiet to listen to classical music on the radio. Will let himself drift for a bit, staring out the window until they pulled up to a house that, true to the Bentley’s promise, was a huge three-story in one of the better neighborhoods of Baltimore. He tried to keep his dubiousness from his expression, but some must have made it out, as Hannibal gave him a mild look as he opened the door.

“I’m not about to apologize for my wealth or my uses of it.” He held the door politely for Will.

Will gave him a small, crooked smile. “Sorry. I don’t have the best experiences with rich people.”

Hannibal shut the door behind them and waved Will further in to what proved to be a very tastefully well-appointed home. “Many rich people feel it’s their due to be treated as superior by everyone they meet. The rest of the world are their servants, and they’re never permitted to forget it.”

“And you don’t approve?” Will stopped as he entered what was clearly the kitchen. It was as expensively decorated as the rest of the house, with a care taken in every part of it that was awe-inspiring, if not surprising given the taste of Hannibal’s food. And the smells that had been barely noticeable in the hallway permeated the air divinely. He had to pause just to savor it.

Stepping past him, Hannibal nudged Will toward a leather chair in the corner, smiling at his reaction. He pulled an apron from the counter and tied it on, checking the oven and adjusting a dial. “I happen to believe I’m superior to a lot of people in many ways,” he answered as he did, “but my money, while it may be the result of some of those characteristics, is not in and of itself a reason.” He took out a pan and started heating some butter. “And I’ve met indigent individuals with greater intelligence and worth than many rich ones.” He paused and checked the heat. “And also some with much less of both,” he added with a smile.

Will laughed. “So basically, I shouldn’t judge people for being rich, unless they’re stupid?”

“Yes,” Hannibal answered, joining his laughter. “Or uncultured. It should be a crime to have access to art and not appreciate it.”

“Well, your food is definitely art.” Will got up to stand by the counter and watch as Hannibal cooked. His words got him a smile before Hannibal took a bowl from the refrigerator and started laying slices of floured meat in the pan. “What are we eating tonight?”

“Cervelles au beurre noir,” Hannibal answered, “and snow peas and potatoes with pesto. Accompanied by fresh bread and a very good white burgundy.” He poured a bit of oil into a second pan and started adding potatoes from another bowl. Will watched as he worked with those and the peas, stopping to turn the meat slices without missing a beat. It was a dance he’d clearly had a lot of practice with, and Will was riveted.

Almost without his realizing it, Will found himself falling into Hannibal’s mindset, watching his hands. He forced himself to stop, then eyed Hannibal and remembered what he’d said. With a deep breath, he found the pattern again and tentatively slipped into it. _Food is integral to life; food deserves respect. I take pride in my art, prepared to the most exacting standards. Few people truly appreciate it, but I would know the difference if I didn’t do my best. It’s a challenge; masterpieces from base ingredients, like found-object art. Like the rest of my art. It —_

A hand on his shoulder broke Will from his reverie, and he stepped back, startled.

Hannibal squeezed his shoulder and smiled. “Did I interrupt? The food is ready.”

Will took a moment longer to gather himself as Hannibal lifted two plates and led the way to the dining room. The things he’d learned in that brief glimpse weren’t as much of a shock as they probably should have been. _You knew,_ he realized, _you’d already seen it._

By the time they were seated and the meal was in front of him, Will was fully himself again. He looked down at his plate, the food on it arranged gorgeously. “This looks almost too good to eat. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like it before.” While he’d described Hannibal’s food as art, he’d meant the flavor, but the sight of it was just as incredible.

“You’ve had my food before,” Hannibal pointed out as he poured Will a glass of wine and took his seat.

“In containers and wrappers,” Will protested. “Not like this.” _Just like this. The art in the flavors if not in the presentation._ He took a moment longer to marvel at it, to call to mind the image of Garret Jacob Hobbs, bloody and grotesque, and to contemplate the contrasts. He cut a small bite of meat and lifted it up. “He’s much prettier here than in that amusement park.”

He met Hannibal’s eyes, saw the flicker of mistrust and the beginnings of denial, then the smooth, cool acceptance as Hannibal turned to his food. “I disagree. I find them both beautiful. Will you be informing the FBI of your discovery, Mister Graham?” He took a bite and looked back up at Will, polite and formal and locked away.

“That the man I’m dating likes art and good food?” Will smirked. “I don’t think that’s much of a secret.” He ate the bite and took a moment to savor it as it practically melted on his tongue. “Oh, wow. That’s really good.”

Hannibal watched him and his expression slowly became more open, the coldness dissipating. The fondness in his eyes was tinged with wonder. “Thank you. I worked quite hard at it.”

Will swallowed and washed it down with wine. “I saw.” He shook his head. “That was…something.” He ate another bite. “Will you be cooking everything you took?”

“Probably,” Hannibal answered. “But I never reveal my food before it’s ready.”

“Fair enough.” Will gave him another smile. They went back to eating, and it was a moment before Will remembered something else and spoke up. “Alana said you throw dinner parties. You feed them your kills, don’t you?”

“And none the wiser,” Hannibal agreed. He oozed satisfaction.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit…well, for want of a better word, mean?”

Hannibal gave him a look. “I wouldn’t deny it if anyone asked. Nobody ever has.”

Will set his silverware down and looked back. “Why?”

Hannibal leaned forward into Will’s line of sight; caught, Will met his eyes. The darkness he’d seen before in them was back. “Because it’s no more than they deserve, either. So determined that reapers are so far below them, titillated by their actions and feigning disgust, benefitting from the society they keep safe, and treating them worse than the ones they kill. None of it touches them.” 

His smile wasn’t pleasant, but it made Will’s heart pound faster for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. “That’s not all, is it?” he murmured, reaching out to run his fingers along Hannibal’s jaw. “You just like it.” Still caught in Hannibal’s gaze, Will let himself be drawn in. “It’s fun to imagine their horror if they knew. Fun to see how far you can go without them catching on.”

Hannibal’s lips curved under Will’s fingers. “You see me so well. I’ve never had so appreciative an audience before.”

“Is that all this is?” he couldn’t help but ask. “You needing an audience?”

“That’s part of it,” Hannibal acknowledged. “And you fascinate me. And,” he added, a light of mischief coming to his eyes, “you have a very lovely ass.”

Will laughed loudly, startled. “You have a way with words.”

Grinning, Hannibal took Will’s hand as he sat back, and lifted it to kiss his knuckles. “So I’ve been told. Eat your food before it’s cold.”

“Yes, sir,” Will teased back, but he did go back to eating. It would be a shame to waste such a beautiful meal.

The dishes had been cleared off and Hannibal had started coffee before Will got the courage to speak the other thing that had been on his mind. “Zawalski knows, too. He saw me working it out.”

Hannibal straightened. After a moment, he nodded. “If he were going to do anything about it, he would have already.”

“He said you were doing too much good; he wasn’t going to hobble you that way. But he did want to talk to you.”

“Better than I expected, then.” He got down two cups and took out cream and sugar. “Zawalski is a good man and a good administrator. It’s frankly amazing he’s made it as far as he has in the government.”

Will chuckled. “Yeah, well. And Jack Crawford?”

Hannibal pursed his lips. “Jack can be a good man, but he cares far too little for the people he works with; he’s focused on the end goal at the expense of everything else. He’s also very good at politics, so I doubt this will hurt him too much, but he needed a dose of humility.”

“I don’t imagine he’s terribly fond of you right now.”

“I don’t imagine he is,” Hannibal agreed. “Good. If he tries to do anything about it, I’ll send him off chasing his tail again.” He reached out and set one hand at Will’s waist. “Have we had enough talk of other people yet?”

“One more question,” Will said, and snickered at the dramatic pout Hannibal gave him. “How did you find Hobbs? You were tracking him somehow?”

“The man was an opportunist.” Hannibal smiled. “I put myself in that alley, with the car still running and my jacket and a clipboard on the seat, as if I were waiting for a delivery. He not only stole the car, he stole my jacket as well. I sewed a tracker in the lining.” He smirked at Will’s admiring look. “I am very good at what I do.”

“That’s…probably hotter than it should be,” Will confessed.

“Then if we’re quite done talking about other people?” Hannibal asked.

“For now,” Will agreed, grinning and pulling Hannibal closer.

Hannibal leaned in for a kiss and Will met him halfway.


End file.
